Wizardborn (World's First Wizard Book 3), Aaron Schneider [top 50 books to read .txt] 📗

Just some speed if you please, Milo thought.

As you wish, master, Imrah answered a touch sullenly.

Milo’s body sped up as the pipe came hurtling toward his head, and he tilted away from the blow with consummate ease. The youth was unprepared for a complete miss and therefore was precariously unbalanced. Milo kicked out and the boy went down hard, his head bouncing off the pavement with a hollow thunk.

The wizard was pretty sure he saw the young man breathing as he turned back to the others, but that was the only sign of life.

“Now, I think that’s enough of that.”

The rest of the pack was already surging in, weapons raised. Milo was glad to find Imrah hadn’t been stingy with the magical enhancements as he darted out of the way of several swings at once. Ambrose roared a battlefield challenge as he rushed to Milo’s defense, then everything became the mad kaleidoscope of violence that was close combat.

The young men weren’t trained fighters, but they had rage and numbers on their side, attacking with a recklessness that was difficult to take advantage of because there was always another attack by their fellows. Multiple times Milo almost delivered a leveling blow, only to check the swing to deflect or sidestep another attacker. At this rate, they’d eventually get him because he had no chance to fight back and they’d wear him down.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ambrose flatten one teen with a passing elbow as he turned to throw a charging thug over his shoulder. Not for the first time, Milo found himself envying not just the big man’s power but the brutal economy of his movements. Magic could provide much, but those reflexes and ingrained movements came with experience alone.

Milo looked away for a second, and as he backpedaled, his foot slipped. A knife was arcing toward his chest, and with wild desperation, he drew deeply on the fetish in his hands and swung out. The magically-powered movement drove the length of the cane across the forearm holding the knife, and there was an audible snap like rain-dampened twigs breaking. The knife tumbled from a hanging hand, and Milo’s foot in the screaming young man’s chest sent the wretch flying back into his compatriot.

The space this maneuver created was what Milo needed, and he adjusted his grip on the cane and leaped to the attack.

Snarling a curse, he scythed the back of the eagle skull into the hip of the uninjured attacker entangled with the disarmed knife wielder. There wasn’t the satisfying crack of bones this time, but the youth’s leg gave out underneath him. Already enmeshed with a wailing casualty pawing at him one-handed, the unfortunate young man twisted and then toppled onto his injured hip, and his screams mirrored his compatriot’s.

Milo spun to the next two assailants like a grim farmer ready to reap a vicious harvest. The fetish cane’s hooked beak imitated a stubby scythe.

The two young men hesitated, and that cost them dearly. A sharp chop to a knee felled each, and rap on the skulls left them sprawled on the pavement.

When Milo’s gaze swept around, he saw only two figures left standing. Ambrose was advancing on the tall leader. He had not rushed in with his pack, who now lay in various states of unconsciousness and disarray.

Ambrose’s thick fingers were curled, and a terrible grin had spread beneath his bristling mustache. His expression suggested the big man would love nothing better than to devour the whelp after tearing him apart with those hooked fingers.

The young firebrand didn’t seem keen on the idea.

“This isn’t over,” he hissed as he began to shuffle backward, hate and fear shining in bulging eyes.

“Why are you leaving?” Ambrose growled from deep in his chest. “Come a little closer, and we can finish it properly.”

The packless alpha skittered back several steps, pausing on the edge of flight.

“The new Reich—the forever Reich—is coming,” he screeched at them defiantly. “Soon you and all the traitors like you will be hanging in the streets. Very soon!”

Ambrose sprang forward and the young man bolted, boots thumping on the street.

“Forever Reich?” Ambrose spat, kicking a moaning youth pawing feebly at his foot as he turned and picked his way toward Milo. “What an ass.”

A tremor went through Milo as the adrenaline and magical fortification leached from his body and he looked at their handiwork. All of them would live, but several of them would walk with a limp or have to chew on one side for a while.

He’d had the fight he’d longed for, but its source was little comfort.

“Street gangs preaching the coming Reich.” He sighed heavily. “That can’t be a good sign.”

Ambrose nodded, then patted Milo’s shoulder.

“Fear not.” He started to pull the wizard away from the scene.

“Come along, sweetheart.” He chuckled. “We had our fun, but we’d best get you back to the general staff before you’re missed.”

4

These Questions

Their arrival at the general staff offices was not nearly as casual as their departure.

They’d no more than set foot into the lobby of the building when a grim cohort advanced on them as though they had been lying in wait.

“Milo Volkohne, come with us,” instructed a stern-looking young officer with the insignia of the military police emblazoned on his lapel. At his side were two enlisted men with pistols and truncheons on their belts, and something in the set of their shoulders made it clear they were handily proficient with either.

“Am I under arrest?” Milo asked, the skin on his arms prickling as a stone settled into his stomach.

“The general staff has reconvened,” the officer said, dismissing the question with a curt blink. “You were not in the lobby when an aide was sent to find you, so we’ve been asked to make sure you arrive with all speed.”

The idea of sitting there stewing in the lobby while the general staff whispered and grumbled among themselves had never occurred to him. It seemed they were