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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