Peter Brett - The Skull Throne

Thamos glanced back. “Gared.”

“On it,” the burly Cutter said. He left his massive axe and machete in their harnesses on his back, balling gauntleted fists. Leesha had warded the gauntlets and infused them with demon bone. He wore only a leather vest and his warded helmet for protection, but Gared strode forward unconcerned.

The demon caught sight of him as he left the protection of the music. It spat fire, but Gared batted at the blast with one hand and it dissipated as it struck the wards. He was upon the creature then, grabbing one of its legs as it tried to scramble out of reach.

The demon might have been fifty pounds, but Gared swung it like a cat with one hand, a smooth arc that brought it over his head and then smashed it back down into the ground. With the breath knocked from it, Gared shifted grip to its throat, pinning it as his gauntleted fist rose and fell, flares of magic flashing in harmony with the spattering sounds and flying ichor.

A pair of stubby stone demons trundled his way, but Gared threw them the flame demon’s broken body, and they paused to devour it. By the time they looked up, he had stepped back into Rojer’s protective field.

Rhinebeck eyed the stone demons in horror. They were less than five feet tall, but broad, with armor like a conglomerate rock face. He shook like a jelly after someone kicked the table.

Mickael, looking angry at having shrieked in front of the others, spat and raised his crank bow. “There are our rock demons. Let’s shoot them and have done.”

“Pfagh!” Thamos waved a dismissive hand at the stone demons. “Those are just stone demons. Hardly worthy prey. Rojer?”

Rojer knit his brows, maintaining the music that kept them concealed, but layering in a suggestion to the stone demons that grew increasingly insistent.

In a moment, it came to a boil. One of the stone demons struck the other, literally breaking its face as the armor shattered.

The demon reeled, then caught itself and struck back in kind as the first one pressed its attack. They crashed to the ground, rolling back and forth as they pounded each other with great stone fists. At last one lay still. The other attempted to rise, but its leg was shattered, and it fell back, unmoving.

“Is it dead?” Sament asked.

Thamos shook his head. “Demons heal quickly. They’re recover from anything that doesn’t kill them outright.”

Sament grunted, raising his crank bow and putting a bolt into the demon’s eye. There was a flare of magic as it blasted through the other side of the demon’s skull, but in the wardlight they saw other demons approaching.

“We’re attracting them,” Pether noted. His tone was flat, but Rojer could sense the hint of panic beneath.

“Of course,” Thamos said. “And we’ll need to do even more if we mean to draw a full-sized rock demon to us.”

“Are we hunters, or bait?” Rhinebeck demanded. “Because it sounds more and more like you’re risking all our lives just to salve your injured pride.”

“Rojer, drive them back.” Thamos pointed to one of the Wooden Soldiers. “Bring the lantern.” In its light, he pointed to a rock demon print in the dirt, as long as a man’s arm. “We’ve been tracking this demon for the last half hour. It rose two miles back, where a mudslide uncovered a slice of bedrock.”

“Night,” Lord Sament said, putting his own booted foot in the print and marveling at the difference. “It must be fifteen feet tall.”

“Twenty, at least,” Gared cut in, grinning. He so loved to make the raw wood squirm. He held a hand flat above his seven-foot frame. “Horns taller’n me.”

Rhinebeck let out a slight whine, the crank bow shaking so noticeably in his hands that those in his immediate vicinity took a step back, watching it warily.

The others weren’t much better. Mickael was squeezing his crank bow so hard Rojer thought the wood might crack, and Pether appeared to be uttering the first sincere prayer of his life. Even the soldiers in their escort looked ready to soil their fine wooden armor, clutching their spears tight.

Lord Sament looked at them in disgust. “Is this the courage Angiers wants Miln to ally with? If we send men to fight the Krasians, will you fight shoulder-to-shoulder with them, or cower at their backsides?”

It was an unexpected slap from the previously mild lord, but the naked night had a way of bringing out the truth in a man. The words startled the elder brothers and men-at-arms back to the present.

Thamos pointed to where a pair of ridges formed a narrow pass, gently outlined in the clear light of the gibbous moon. A handful of stunted trees grew high on the steep slopes, naked of leaves in the late season.

“Those trees are too sparse to have drawn any wood demons,” Thamos said. “Sament, take your Mountain Spears to the northern slope. Brothers, you take the southern.”

“And where will you be, brother?” Rhinebeck’s tone made clear there would be a reckoning if they made it home. Rojer feared Thamos had pushed too far.

But if Thamos understood the damage he had done, he showed no sign. His blood was up, and every Hollower knew what that meant.

“Behind those rocks,” Thamos pointed, “until Rojer lures the demon into the pass. He will take position at the far end, while we move in to the rear with a spear wall to prevent it from escaping the pass while you shoot.”

“Don’t spare the quarrels,” Gared noted. “This is a twenty-foot rock, not some stone demon you can put down with a bolt or two. Even if every shot’s perfect, your first volley’s just going to piss it off. You’ll need to empty your quivers and turn its head into a ripping pincushion.”

“I think I’m going to slosh,” one of the Wooden Soldiers said. Everyone looked as he slapped a hand to his mouth, heaving.

“Sergeant … Mese, isn’t it?” Thamos asked. The man nodded, eyes wide and cheeks distended with bile.

“Spit it out or swallow, Sergeant,” Thamos said. “No one’s dying tonight if they keep their heads and do as they’re told.”

The man nodded, and Rojer had to suppress a heave himself as Mese scrunched his face and swallowed his half-digested dinner back down.

Gared, Thamos, and the Wooden Soldiers moved behind the rocks while the others climbed into position along the ridges. Even with his wardsight Rojer could not make out the men hidden in the trees, which meant the demon would not see them, either. They flashed their lanterns and Rojer raised his fiddle, lifting his chin to let the magic of the instrument send his call far into the night.

It was answered immediately. As Thamos had intended, the sounds of battle had attracted its attention, and the rock was already headed their way. It was a simple matter to lure it along the chosen path.

Minutes later, the demon moved into view, brushing trees aside like houseplants. Its legs were like columns of black marble, and Rojer could feel the ground shake with each footfall.

Rojer adjusted his melody, entrancing the creature as he backed toward the narrow pass. When he was confident the coreling was mesmerized, he turned and moved deeper into the pass, trusting it to follow.

Thamos had chosen the ground well. It would be difficult for the Royals to miss at such range, and the kill would give them all much-needed confidence.

When he was safely out of the line of fire, Rojer altered his melody again, pushing back at the demon instead of drawing it on. As the great beast stood dazed, Thamos set off a flare that lit the night, illuminating the demon clearly.

There was a thrumming from the north, and Rojer’s warded eyes saw the Milnese quarrels streak magic through the air and sizzle into the demon’s head and neck. It shrieked in pain, and Rojer lost all control of it. He lowered his fiddle and wrapped his Cloak of Unsight about himself to wait.