stone swords

Behind me came the Sidhe, their weapons shrieking and wailing as the cold, cold faemetal sank into flesh and tasted hot blood, and vapor boiled away from the wounds the supernatural weapons inflicted, their bloodied lengths bubbling as new-drawn blood hissed into plumes of vapor. The light of the Sidhe’s armor and weapons and eyes was terrible in the vision of the Fomor’s slave-soldiers, and the abominations howled and tried to shield their eyes from the painful hues.
We plunged entirely through the enemy’s front line in seconds, taking them completely off guard in the thickened haze—and I almost didn’t see what had really just happened.
Behind me, I could see one of the abominations, reeling back from the surprise attack from Mab’s flying wedge, clutch at a long, shallow, frost-covered wound in its arm, probably Mab’s work, and suddenly begin to scream.
The creature clutched at its wounded arm, holding it straight up, rigid, as if it had been holding a mannequin’s arm.
I saw the skin along the edges of the wound writhe and suddenly turn black.
And that black began to spread.
The abomination screamed in piteous terror for several seconds, as the black color from the edges of its frostbitten wound raced throughout its body—bringing a terrible stillness in its wake. By the time the black had wrapped around the abomination’s torso, the screaming had stopped.
It died screaming.
And a second later, all that was left was an agonized-looking statue of dark stone.
I heard more, even more painful screams behind us, and realized that the weapons of the Sidhe had apparently carried the same curse. We had cut a swath through the enemy, and those we had wounded had . . . simply turned to dark, rough, sandy-textured stone.
And it had, as a consequence, split the group of abominations into two much smaller groups of abominations, separated by a wall of statues.
Without hesitation, Mab wheeled on the nearest group, screamed again, and led the charge through it, her scream carrying me, Butters, and the Sidhe warriors forward, through another round of desperate nightmare time. And once that group had been split, whatever will drove them could no longer keep them on the field. The abominations began to flee, screaming, vanishing into the Winter mist around us.
The Sidhe cut them down without mercy. Lethal blows were kinder: They left nothing but a dead horror upon the ground. Mere wounds began to blacken and petrify, carrying those struck to an agonizing final ending.
Die swiftly or die slowly. That was all the compassion Winter was willing to show.

Battle Ground Chapter 27, Page 249-250