The Magehound - Elaine Cunningham [104]
None of the men with Andris possessed magic, but only the jordaini had much resistance to it.
But no spells erupted from the jerky skeletal hands. The undead men were merely repeating gestures they had learned in life. But Andris's keen senses felt a curious sucking sensation in the air about him, an invisible and intangible vortex. He suspected that if any of the men with him had possessed magic, something in Kilmaruu would steal it away.
Not liches, then, but something different, some creation of the swamp itself.
He led the attack with a sudden rush that sent swamp water spraying and surging. The two forces, the living and the undead, slammed together. Andris chose his target, and his daggers drove for the tattered remains of sinew that connected the animated bones. His men grappled with the skeletal fighters, hacking and tearing at them and flinging anything that came loose into the deepest tangle of reeds or underbrush that they could reach.
But these creatures didn't accept death easily. Beheaded skulls rolled and spun in the water, jaws clacking furiously. An arm slithered toward them, looking eerily like a thin white crocodile.
Suddenly Wolther started shrieking in his barbarian tongue. He stamped frantically and repeatedly, then gave that up and began to stab the water with his sword.
Andris sloshed over to give aid and swore softly at the sight before him. A dismembered hand had crawled over to Wolther. Bony fingers dug through boot leather and into the flesh beneath.
"Your sword!" Andris demanded, closing his hand around the hilt.
Wolther hesitated, then he gave a quick nod and relinquished the sword.
"Get it off!" he screamed, babbling with barely constrained hysteria. "Cut it off at the knee if that's what it takes."
The jordain carefully slid the sword between the boot and the bony palm, digging the blade in as deep into the swamp bed as he could. He braced one foot against Wolther's leg and began to pry the bony fingers away. The task was distressing like pulling nails from a wooden plank, but in a few moments the skeletal hand was out. Bony fingers wrapped around the sword and began to inch their way toward the hilt. Andris whipped the sword forward and sent the hand spinning toward the fern-choked banks.
He turned to Wolther and noted with relief that no blood gushed forth and that the injured leg could still support the man's weight. None of the major veins or sinews had been breached. Wolther might always walk with a limp, but if the wound didn't turn septic, he would survive.
By the time he was finished with Wolther, his men had finished dismembering the undead wizards. Andris glanced up at the sun and was surprised to note that only a short time had passed.
"Let's keep moving," he said softly. "This promises to be a very long day."
The ground underfoot grew firmer, and the terrain began to slope gently upward. Soon they were walking on dry ground. Andris knew from his studies that in times long past, this had been a rain forest set on gently rolling hills. It was said that a trio of wizards had diverted a river just to see if it could be done. As it happened, it could, and the result was the Kilmaruu Swamp. But this deed had left a city stranded, and its furious citizens determined to reclaim their drowned lands.
The land dipped suddenly, forming what appeared to be the ruins of an ancient moat. Fortunately an ancient tree had fallen over the water, providing a natural bridge. Clumps of ferns and colorful twisted fungi grew in the rotting wood, but it looked sound enough to hold their weight "Prepare the saltpowder," Andris said softly. Each man quickly took two objects from his packs: a weapon that resembled a tiny catapult mounted on a crossbow and a small bottle filled with what appeared to