Acidtongue seethed in Bikker’s hand, its pitted metal slick with power. Ghostcutter leapt from Croy’s sheath and shone in the moonlight like a torch of might. Croy’s sword had no magic in it—instead, it had been made to cut through magic. Its blade was as long as Croy’s arm, made of cold-forged iron as black as the pit. No man now alive—nor any dwarf—remembered the method of its manufacture: alone in the world, it possessed its special characteristics. One edge had been honed to razor sharpness, and had to be specially ground out when it dulled—no heat could be applied to the blade or the iron would lose its special properties. Silver had been fused along the other edge, carefully poured along the cutting surface to make a uniform coating. Trails and runnels of the silver streaked the central ridge and fuller like the drippings of candle wax. The iron edge did more damage to demons than the best steel ever could, while the silver could disrupt magic spells and curses, and, aye, even cut the ectoplasmic flesh of a ghost. It was a potent weapon, and it had served Croy well on more occasions than he could count. He knew its every peculiarity, had learned its balance and its heft so thoroughly that when he held it, Ghostcutter became an extension of his arm—an extension of his desire for justice and the right.

In many ways he thought of himself as an extension of Ghostcutter, instead of vice versa. The sword had a destiny, and a longer span of life than Croy ever would.

Now he waded straight into the arms of the demon, flourishing the sword above his head, totally without fear. He brought the iron edge down with a strong overhead swing that should have sliced one of the demon’s tentacles in half.

Except that it didn’t.

The rubbery tissue scorched where the iron blade touched it—the stench was overpowering—but it was like trying to cut water. The sword went through without resistance but the flesh simply flowed around it. Croy shouted his defiance and swung again, this time a low, sideways cut that could have cleaved a man in half at the waist. The tentacle before him split open—so it could be cut!—but oozed away from the stroke even before Croy had followed through.

He had failed to harm the demon much, but succeeded in one thing: he had gotten its attention. A tentacle lashed toward him even as he was recovering from his attack and wrapped itself around his neck like a living whipcord. There was no time to parry, much less dodge out of its way. In the Lady’s sacred name the thing was fast.