Sword of the Gods - Bruce R. Cordell [50]
The mass of the monster hammered him to the ground and his head cracked against the stone. The demon clutched him with its two good arms, while the third remained tangled with his blade.
Demascus retained his sword and threw his other arm up to protect his neck from the thing’s claws. “I took you up,” he grunted to the Veil. But the white length of material seemed played out. Great.
The creature decided to live up to the name Demascus had given it by attempting to burrow into Demascus’s stomach. It had to scratch through a layer of jacket and leather armor before it could reach soft skin. Probably because its normal complement of arms was reduced by half, it didn’t immediately succeed. But Demascus was lying on his back with one wrenched arm. He knew he only had a moment before his armor wore through and it gutted him.
He yelled a wordless challenge into the thing’s face, released the sword that wasn’t really helping him, and transferred both hands to the scarf. He whipped the cream-hued Veil up and around, trying to swirl it around the demon’s throat.
The wrap twitched to life once more!
But the monster recognized the threat. It bounded off Demascus, straight up and away from the animated Veil.
Three crossbow bolts caught the beast, two in the back and one along the side of its face. A dagger hurtled through the air and stuck in the hollow of the demon’s throat.
The creature made a funny gasping sound, snapped at Demascus reflexively, then tried to rip the scarf out of Demascus’s hand, even as a clear gelatinous fluid became a torrent down its chest, adding to the gore already spattering out of the monster and pooling at its feet.
It was a tug of war.
“Let go, demon!” yelled Demascus. He hauled back on his end.
The demonic thing did the same, and in so doing, pulled Demascus to his feet.
Before he quite knew what he was doing, he twisted, put his hip into the creature’s stomach, then pulled on the scarf with all his strength. If the creature had let go its end, Demascus would have put himself in a very bad spot. But the beast held on, and paid for its perseverance by being flipped over Demascus’s extended leg. The creature flew ten paces across the chamber.
It came down badly. The cracking sound of several bones snapping ricocheted on the stone walls.
This time the monster did not get up.
Demascus leaned forward, put his hands on his knees, and just breathed. He kept his eyes on the body a little longer before glancing around. Chant was poised to fire his crossbow again. Riltana stood with bent knees, ready to charge or flee. Her face was set in an angry scowl, and she held another dagger ready.
“I think it’s dead,” said Riltana.
Demascus nodded and straightened.
“You went hand-to-hand with that thing and lived,” said Chant, as he slowly lowered his hand. “Impressive.”
“Are you kidding?” said Demascus. “I was an inch from losing my intestines. Got any of those for sale in your shop?”
The pawnbroker chuckled. He said, “What the Hells was it?”
“The same kind of beast that ambushed me at the shrine. But this one was bigger and stronger.”
“A demon then,” mused Chant.
“It seems so.” His imperfect memory wasn’t up to the task of precisely identifying it, but the scarlet crystal encrustations seemed distinctly wrong. Focusing on them for long made his eyes sting.…
“It was tracking us,” said Chant. “How wonderful for you.”
The creature’s body slumped as it lost color and shape. It ran and boiled to nothingness. Even the vapor of its passing faded, all in the space of a dozen heartbeats.
“Easy cleanup, at least,” said the pawnbroker.
Riltana palmed her dagger and said, “All right. What’s going on?”
Instead of answering, Demascus let one end of the scarf dangle to the floor. Since the creature was defeated, the wrap had returned to acting just like a normal piece of fabric. He twirled it for effect and looked at her with a raised eyebrow.
“Oh, right,” she said. “Your scarf. I guess you wanted it back.” The woman had the grace to look embarrassed.