JК
The Magehound :: Каннингем Элейн
Страница: 100 из 216At the last moment, Andrissidestepped so that the man splashed down into the water. He rose dripping but smiling in relief. Rattan swords did not draw blood, but all of the men were covered with livid bruises.
"You see?" Andris said. "Working together, small bands of men can fight large numbers. Let's try it again, this time with four attackers."
It was a precise sequence, a deadly dance with finely timed moves. Again and again Andris walked them through it, showing how to fight against four, against six, how to vary the defenses and attacks against humans, against wights and ghouls.
The wemic was both impressed and troubled by this display. He had always been Kiva's strong right hand. She had purchased him when he was a cub, a child too young to remember the ways of the pride. The elf woman was his only family. What she said, he did. His strength was prodigious, and he had never known fear. Few men or elves could best him at arms. What he knew, he did very well.
Mbatu was beginning to realize, however, how limited his knowledge was. Oh, he could fight. In honest melee, few could match him, much less overcome him. Yet in less than a moon's time he had been outmaneuvered by one jordain and replaced by another.
The wemic watched as the men sloshed through the shallow, fetid water and drove stakes into the muck. To these they fastened several straw figures. Andris moved the men into position, encircling the straw zombies like a pack of wolves and closing in. At his mark, each man tossed a handful of coarse, sandy substance into the water. The swamp began to roil and sizzle. Foul gas rose from it, writhing like sickly green ghosts. One of the fighters tossed a torch into the vapor. There was a sudden sharp sucking sound, and then the swamp was aflame.
The fire died almost as suddenly as it had erupted. The only trace of the straw men was the charred sticks that had supported them. The zombies and ghouls wouldn't leave even that much of a legacy.
Kiva came up behind him, her nose wrinkled in disgust over the scent. "How goes it?"
"The jordain knows his undead," the wemic admitted. "If the men fight as he tells them to do, they will win."
"I am glad to hear it. It will be good practice," she agreed.
Mbatu studied her, his leonine face troubled.
"Practice?"
"For Akhlaur," Kiva said calmly. "The men will learn to fight in a swamp, to deal with the undead."
"But what of the laraken?" demanded Mbatu. "What will prepare them for such a monster?"
"What could?" she retorted.
"You see?" Andris said. "Working together, small bands of men can fight large numbers. Let's try it again, this time with four attackers."
It was a precise sequence, a deadly dance with finely timed moves. Again and again Andris walked them through it, showing how to fight against four, against six, how to vary the defenses and attacks against humans, against wights and ghouls.
The wemic was both impressed and troubled by this display. He had always been Kiva's strong right hand. She had purchased him when he was a cub, a child too young to remember the ways of the pride. The elf woman was his only family. What she said, he did. His strength was prodigious, and he had never known fear. Few men or elves could best him at arms. What he knew, he did very well.
Mbatu was beginning to realize, however, how limited his knowledge was. Oh, he could fight. In honest melee, few could match him, much less overcome him. Yet in less than a moon's time he had been outmaneuvered by one jordain and replaced by another.
The wemic watched as the men sloshed through the shallow, fetid water and drove stakes into the muck. To these they fastened several straw figures. Andris moved the men into position, encircling the straw zombies like a pack of wolves and closing in. At his mark, each man tossed a handful of coarse, sandy substance into the water. The swamp began to roil and sizzle. Foul gas rose from it, writhing like sickly green ghosts. One of the fighters tossed a torch into the vapor. There was a sudden sharp sucking sound, and then the swamp was aflame.
The fire died almost as suddenly as it had erupted. The only trace of the straw men was the charred sticks that had supported them. The zombies and ghouls wouldn't leave even that much of a legacy.
Kiva came up behind him, her nose wrinkled in disgust over the scent. "How goes it?"
"The jordain knows his undead," the wemic admitted. "If the men fight as he tells them to do, they will win."
"I am glad to hear it. It will be good practice," she agreed.
Mbatu studied her, his leonine face troubled.
"Practice?"
"For Akhlaur," Kiva said calmly. "The men will learn to fight in a swamp, to deal with the undead."
"But what of the laraken?" demanded Mbatu. "What will prepare them for such a monster?"
"What could?" she retorted.