Swords & Dark Magic (6 page)

As the demon crumpled at his feet, Flapp grunted and said, “Didn’t think so.”

The two demons, boon companions for centuries, clutched each other, sharing a puddle of rank piss pooling around them, as two female humans stepped into view. Ferocious barbed bolts flung the two demons apart like rag dolls.

Wither began working the crank to reload her weapon, whilst Huggs limped forward. “You see them? Fucking pathetic.”

“You’re getting soft, Huggs.”

“Loaded?”

“Yes.”

“My turn. Keep an eye peeled, Withy.”

“Count on it.”

The imp could hear random death-cries echoing down the corridors, each one trembling through its scrawny, puny form. Reaching the iron ladder, it clambered upward as fast as its little limbs could carry it.

Not fast enough.

“Got ya.”

A mailed hand snatched the imp up, plucked it from the railing.

The imp squealed and thrashed about, but it was no use. It struggled to bring its sword to bear, but the man reached with his other hand and broke the imp’s sword arm. Snap, like a twig. Broke the other one, too, and then both legs. That really hurt!

Helpless, the imp dangled limp in the man’s grip. He stared down at it, breathing loud, mouth hanging open.

And then he bit down on the imp’s head and held it in his mouth as he climbed the ladder.

That breath! The imp cringed, even through its agony of broken bits everywhere. That breath!

As soon as they reached the top, and the man walked out of the armory, along the corridor, and out to the main chamber, the imp sent forth a frantic cry, a sorcerous plea bristling with desperate power.

Mommy! Mommy! Help me!

None left. Of course they could not be entirely certain of that, but they’d scoured every possible hiding place, rooting out the snarling oversized rats and chopping them to pieces.

Skint led them back to the arbalest armory, where they loaded up on bolts, including the assault quarrels with their looped ends, as well as bundles of thick cables. The walk back to the ladder was slow and awkward, with all the blood, corpses, and gore cluttering the passageways. By the time they strode out into the main chamber, Dullbreath was waiting for them. He nodded to a small figure pinned by a tiny sword to the floor in the center of the room.

“Still breathing?”

“Hard to say. Hard to kill for real, those things.”

“All right. Good work, Dullbreath. Let’s get ready then.”

The girl who walked in through the keep’s doors clutched a bundle of plucked flowers, her blond hair drifting like seed fluff. Her large eyes settled on the tiny figure of the imp nailed to the floor, and she edged closer.

Her expression fell as she looked down on her dead child. Kneeling, she set aside her flowers and reached out to brush that tiny, cold forehead.

Then, as she straightened, five soldiers stepped out from behind pillars, each bearing loaded arbalests.

The girl raised her scrawny arms and vanished inside a blurry haze. Spice-laden clouds rolled from where she stood, and the soldiers stared as she awakened to her true form, burgeoning, towering at almost twice the height of an average man, and easily twice as wide. Fangs as long as short swords, a mass of muscles like bundles of rope, hands that could crush armored soldiers as if they were frail eggs.

Huggs snorted. “A demon, huh? That’s not just a demon, Captain. That’s a fucking Harridan!”

“Commander of a legion,” added Dullbreath. “What were they thinking?”

The demon opened its maw and howled.

The sound deafened them, shook plaster loose from ceiling and walls.

The soldiers lifted their weapons. And fired.

The bolts pounded deep into the giant beast, and each dart snaked cables behind it—cables bound around the base of a pillar. The hinged barbs on the heads snagged deep in the demon’s flesh. Shrieking, it sought to pull away, but the thick ropes snapped taut—to tear loose of any one of the quarrels would break bones and spill out organs and who knew what else.

“Reload,” growled Skint.

And so they did.

Dawn’s light slowly stole in through the entrance, crept across the floor of the main chamber.

“Last crate,” said Flapp in a ragged, exhausted voice.

He went around, passing out the last of the bolts. Cranks clanked, but slowly.

Wither stepped up to squint at the pin-cushioned heap of mangled flesh huddled in the center of the chamber, and then shrugged and returned to her arbalest.

Five weapons clanged. Five bolts sank into the body.

“Quivered some,” observed Flapp.

“So would you,” said Huggs. “No whimpers though. Those stopped some time ago.” She turned to the captain. “Could be it’s finally dead.”

“Prod it with your sword,” Skint commanded.

“Me and my big mouth.” But Huggs drew her weapon and edged closer. She gave the thing a poke. “Nothing.” She poked harder. Still no response. So she stabbed. “Hah! It’s dead all right.”

Arbalests dropped from exhausted arms.

“Saddle us up, Withy. Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

“You got it, Captain.”

Graves had been up all night. No amount of beeswax could have stoppered up that seemingly endless chorus of screams and howls from the keep. It had never been so bad. Ever. Those soldiers, they’d died hard. Damned hard.

He rigged up his mule and cart and led the procession—a quiet bunch this morning, for sure—up to collect the remains and whatever loot came out with it. Work was work, wasn’t it just. People did what they did to get by, and what else was life all about? Nothing. That was it. It and nothing more. But, dammit, he didn’t want the boy to spend his whole cursed life here in Glory, didn’t want him taking over when Graves gave it up, not stepping in when Slim finally swallowed her ring and choked to death—the gods knew she wasn’t going to die naturally. Didn’t want any of that, not for the boy.

After sending a few scowls at the bleary-eyed but ever-greedy faces arrayed behind him, he tugged the reluctant mule up to the first of the hillside’s switchbacks.

And then stopped.

As the first clump of horse hoofs sounded up ahead.

The captain was in the lead. The others followed. Every one of them. Five, aye, five one by one by one by one by one.

Graves stared.

As she passed him, Skint flung a bloody mass of something at him. Reflexively, he caught it and looked down at the wilted remnants of flowers. Dripping red.

The sergeant was next. “Five graves? Not enough, sir, not by a long shot.”

Wither added more as she rode past, “Try about ninety-five more.”

Huggs snorted. “And a big one, too, and I mean big. Oh, and a tiny one, too.”

Dullbreath halted opposite Graves and looked down at him with jaded eyes. “For fuck’s sake, Graves, we kill those fuckers for a living.”

He rode on. They all did.

Graves looked down at the flowers in his hand.

People do what they do, he reminded himself. To get by. Just that, to get by.

“Two days to Piety,” said Flapp as they rode along the track on the slow climb to the distant valley mouth.

“And then—”

“Captain,” called out Dullbreath from the rear.

They all reined in and turned.

Slim was riding a mule after them, the old whore rocking back and forth like she’d never learned how to ride, and that struck Flapp as damned funny. But he didn’t laugh.

“We got us a camp follower,” said Wither. “I don’t believe it.”

Flapp opened his mouth and was about to say something, and then he stopped—he’d caught a glint of metal—from way up the trail they’d come down yesterday. “Captain! I saw a flash of steel! Halfway up to the pass!”

Everyone stiffened. Stared, breaths held.

“There! You seen it?”

And the look Skint turned on him was twisted into a mask of unholy terror. “He’s still after us! Ride, soldiers! To save your lives,
ride
!”

GLEN COOK grew up in northern California and served in the U.S. Navy with the Third Marine Recon Battalion, an experience that fundamentally affected his later work. Cook then attended the University of Missouri and the Clarion Writers’ Workshop. His first novel
, The Heirs of Babylon,
appeared in 1972 and was followed by a broad range of fantasy and science fiction novels, including the humorous fantasy Garrett PI series and others. His most important work, though, is the gritty Black Company fantasy series, which follows a mercenary unit over several decades and which brought a whole new perspective to fantasy. Cook is currently retired and lives in St. Louis, Missouri, where he writes full-time.

TIDES ELBA

A Tale of the Black Company

Glen Cook

W
e were playing tonk. One-Eye was in a foul mood because he was losing. Situation normal, except nobody was trying to kill us.

Elmo dealt. One-Eye squeaked. I peeked at my cards. “Another hand so damned bad it don’t qualify as a foot.”

Otto said, “You’re full of shit, Croaker. You won six out of the last ten hands.”

Elmo said, “And bitched about the deal every time.”

“I was right every time I dealt.” I was right this time, too. I did not have a pair. I had no low cards and only one face card. The two in the same suit were the seven and knave of diamonds. I do not have years enough left to fill that straight. Anyway, we all knew One-Eye had one of his rare good hands.

“Then we need to make you full-time dealer.”

I pushed my ante in. I drew, discarded, and tossed my cards in when it came to me.

One-Eye went down with ten. The biggest card he had was a three. His leathery old black face ripped in a grin lacking an adequate population of teeth. He raked the pot in.

Elmo asked the air, “Was that legitimate?” We had a gallery of half a dozen. We had the Dark Horse to ourselves today. It was the Company watering hole in Aloe. The owner, Markeb Zhorab, had mixed feelings. We were not the kind of guys he wanted hanging around but because we did, his business was out standing.

Nobody indicted One-Eye. Goblin, with his butt on the table next over, reminded Elmo, “You dealt.”

“Yeah, there’s that.”

One-Eye has been known to cheat. Hard to manage in a game as simpleminded as tonk, but there you go. He is One-Eye.

“Lucky at cards, unlucky at love,” he said, which made no sense in context.

Goblin cracked, “You better hire yourself some bodyguards. Women will be tearing down doors trying to get to you.”

A wisecrack from Goblin generally fires One-Eye up. He has a hair trigger. We waited for it. One-Eye just grinned and told Otto, “Deal, loser. And make it a hand like the one Elmo just gave me.”

Goblin said something about Missus Hand being the only lucky lady in One-Eye’s life.

One-Eye went on ignoring the bait.

I began to worry.

Otto’s deal did not help.

One-Eye said, “You know how we run into weird customs wherever we go?”

Elmo glared holes through his cards. He grunted. Otto arranged and rearranged his five, meaning he had a hand so bad he did not know how to play it. One-Eye did not squeak but he kept grinning. We were on the brink of a new age, one in which he could win two hands in a row.

Everybody looked at Goblin. Goblin said, “Otto dealt.”

Somebody in the gallery suggested, “Maybe he spelled the cards.”

That all rolled past One-Eye. “The weirdest custom they got here is, when a girl loses her cherry, from then on she’s got to keep all the hair off her body.”

Otto rumbled, “That’s some grade-two bullshit if I ever heard some. We been here near three months and I ain’t seen a bald-headed woman yet.”

Everything stopped, including One-Eye stacking his winnings.

“What?” Otto asked.

There have always been questions about Otto.

The rest of us occasionally invest a coin in a tumble with a professional comfort lady. Though the subject never came up before, I knew I had yet to see one whisker below the neckline.

“Do tell,” Elmo said. “And I thought it was the luck of the draw that I wasn’t seeing what ought to be there.”

I said, “I figured it was how mine kept from getting the crabs.”

“Nope. All tied into their weird religion.”

Goblin muttered, “There’s an oxymoron.”

One-Eye’s mood faltered.

Goblin’s froglike face split in a vast grin. “I wasn’t talking about you, shrimp. You’re just a regular moron. I was talking about slapping the words
weird
and
religion
together.”

“You guys are trying to hex my luck, aren’t you?”

“Sure,” Elmo said. “Talking about pussy works every time. Tell me about these bald snatches.”

One-Eye restacked his winnings. He was turning surly despite his success. He had come up with some great stuff, on a subject guys can kill weeks exploring, and nobody seemed to care.

I shuffled, stacked, and dealt. One-Eye grew more glum as he picked up each card.

The last one got him. “God damn it, Croaker! You asshole! You son of a bitch!”

Elmo and Otto kept straight faces, because they did not know what was happening. Goblin tittered like a horny chickadee.

One-Eye spread his hand. He had a trey of clubs. He had a six of diamonds. He had the nine of hearts and the ace of spades. And that last card was a knave of swords.

I said, “How many times have you claimed you didn’t have no two cards of the same suit? For once you won’t be lying.”

Now Elmo and Otto got it. They laughed harder than me or Goblin. The gallery got a good chuckle, too.

The Lieutenant stuck his head through the front door. “Anybody seen Kingpin?” The Lieutenant did not sound happy. He sounded like an executive officer who had to work on his day off.

“He skating again?” Elmo asked.

“He is. He’s supposed to be on slops. He didn’t show. The cooks want to chop him up for soup bones.”

“I’ll talk to him, sir.” Though Kingpin is not one of his men. Kingpin hides out in Kragler’s platoon.