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Bradley, half his face masked in blood, dropped the empty revolver, took up the spear in a grip that showed he knew something about using one, faced the remaining Huntsmen, and screamed, “Come on!”
They roared back, the cries like a pack of beasts, none of them the same species.
Five dead Huntsmen. Bradley had picked a good position to fight from, surrounded in stone, slight elevation from the street, good cover. But he was out of ammo now, bleeding, and the remaining Huntsmen would only be that much stronger and more difficult to hurt.
And still he planted his feet. “Come on, you ugly bastards!”
“That son of a bitch beat me in every tournament I ever fought him,” Murphy said. “Harry.”
Winter, I thought. Take the Huntsmen.
The ogres went in first, simply leaping from adjacent rooftops, huge white-furred things like River Shoulders, if he’d been a smoker since childhood, after a heroin bender. Though lean and seedy-looking, they were still enormous, viciously strong, and unremittingly savage. One of them landed on a Huntsman with a three-story atomic elbow and crushed it with a great crackling of breaking bones. The other landed on a planted spear that went in its chest and burst through its back in a welter of gore and silver flame. The ogre shrieked like a demon as the Huntsman arced the spear to one side and brought the dying Winter fae crashing down to the street.
Malks yowled like a herd of chain saws and came bounding in from all angles. The Huntsmen’s spears howled and sent some of the murderous beasts to whatever hell waited for them, but there were simply not enough of them to target the streaking forms of the malks. They overbore two of the Huntsmen and buried them in a mound of thick fur and frenzied claws sharper than X-Acto knives. The Huntsmen died screaming.
Beside them, the troop of gnomes had emerged from an alley and flung a dozen hatchets at another Huntsman, even as it swelled in size and power. The wickedly sharp weapons hit with savage effect, setting the Huntsman staggering, and Black Dogs flashed past, fangs raking, and tore through its hamstrings. Once it was at ground level, the gnomes, chestnut-skinned, white-haired little guys maybe two and a half or three feet high, had no problems reaching its vitals.
One of the remaining Huntsmen turned to flee—only to confront the Rawhead coming out of the alley. The fae beast, made of the bones of slaughtered animals and foes, was an enormous form under a great black cloak. The cloak flared out, and the bulky body of the Rawhead, made of hundreds of sharpened bones, began to contort and shriek in a sound uncomfortably like that of a meat grinder.
The Rawhead seized the Huntsman and dragged it beneath its cloak. Its bones rent and tore, where I couldn’t see it, and the Huntsman screamed in fury. And then there was a lot of blood and sausage tumbling out from beneath the Rawhead’s cloak and piling up on the Huntsman’s feet and lower legs.
The last Huntsman roared, rearing up in size—and the second-largest malk I’d ever seen, the size of a mountain lion but far bulkier, flew like an arrow for the creature’s face. Grimalkin’s forepaws spread out to snowshoe proportions and sprouted two-inch claws that latched into the Huntsman’s face. The Elder malk sank its jaws into one of the Huntsman’s eyes, gripping on like a vise to the orbital bone beneath—and thus braced, the supernaturally powerful, swift cat began to rake with its rear claws.
In less than a second, the last Huntsman’s throat looked like twenty or thirty pounds of pulled pork soaked in ketchup.
The Elder malk flung himself aside as the Huntsman, not even yet fully grown into the size of the ones we’d had to kill, dropped limply to the ground, gushing blood like a broken water main. Grimalkin landed not ten feet in front of the Harley, flicked each set of claws once, fastidiously, and said, in that utterly unnerving feline voice, “Sir Knight. Elder Grimalkin, reporting for duty.”

Battle Ground Chapter 20, Page 187-188