Free Demon Lord 5: Silver Crown King by Morgan Blayde Page B

mongrel lot, the cast offs of many other demon clans.  There were non-demons, too.  Rock demons walked side by side with mountain giants.  Pooka—murderous water ponies—clopped along with giant pythons.  The host carried a mix of modern and ancient weapons. 
    The sorcerers were obvious having bedecked themselves in protective amulets and talismans of power.  They also tended to wear garments made of bone.  One of them had for a helmet the horned skull of a gargoyle killed under moonlight when they stop adorning buildings and move about the skyline freely.  The magic-users tended to glow with murky red lights, or to spew black flames.  One of them levitated a dozen swords, hedging himself in with protection so he could work his spells without some hero coming along and lopping his head off.  Power built on ritual could be very potent, especially when stored in charmed items for later use.  The weakness of magic was that destroying the charms killed the spells, and spells started from scratch required time to become effective. 
    This was why my own spells were in tattoo form, needing just a touch of raw magic to set them off.  And why I used sword and gun just as much.  The best warriors aren’t the strongest or fastest—though that doesn’t hurt—but the most flexible in mind.
    “Here’s the good part,” the Old Man said.
    At the edge of the property were boulders meant to look like convenient ammunition.  The hazel-skinned mountain giants waddled over to these rocks and effortlessly hefted them into the air.  Explosions flowered where moving the boulders released pressure-restrained landmines.  Titanium ball bearings punched into the giant’s legs, cracking the outer skin, punching through half-petrified tissues.  Some of the legs came off at the knees.  Mountain giants toppled, steaming mud pouring out of them like blood.  Quite a number of slithering pythons went down as well.
    “Off to a good start,” I said.
    There were murmurs of agreement across the room.
    Imari remained tense and silent.
    Stepping out past the statues on the porch of the holo-version of the Great Hall, a miniature representation of Imari emerged.  She held a flaming sword and her ink-black body was sheathed in red-gold armor.  Using a bull horn, she demanded the immediate surrender of the enemy forces, threatening further carnage.
    The Old Man gestured and the display froze.  His voice emerged deceptively mild, uncharacteristically soft.  “So, Imari, care to explain what you were thinking here?”
    She cleared her throat.  “I was thinking that if they saw we were ready for them, they might withdraw, meaning more of us would live through the attack. 
    “Naive.” I said.  “They leave, they don’t get to loot, they don’t get paid, and their boss will kill them.  Cowardess has no up-side here.”
    “Worse,” the Old Man said, “you identify to them just who needs to be killed to throw our troops into headless disarray.   Why do you think we have a rule about no salutes on the battlefield?”
    “I didn’t think of that,” Imari said.
    “No, you didn’t.”  The Old Man gestured.  The holo-record continued to play.  Zero-T came up behind Imari, grabbed her by her armor’s collar, and dragged her back to cover.  Magic propelled rock demons slammed onto the porch, skidded, and two of the ornamental statues standing there were half broken.  Zero-T gestured and potted saplings left on the porch shattered their pots with a magical orgy of growth.  The saplings became squat trees with roots that covered the rock demons, tying them up in balls.
    Jets of flame shot from the enemy sorcerers.  The flickering tongues enveloped the rock demons.  Being rock, they weren’t hurt by the flames.  The roots were burned away, allowing the rock demons to press their attack.
    “The enemy is coordinating well,” the Old Man said.  “Good training.”
    “Not good enough,” I said.  “Look at all the