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

Milo had used the reprieve to reach Ambrose, who was staggering to his feet. He threw an arm under the big man in time for them to race for cover as the smoldering A7V brought a pair of machine guns to bear. A hail of bullets chewed up the ground at their heels as they dove for the shelter behind piled remains of the wall that had collapsed during the storm.

“You all right?” Milo shouted over the hammering of the automatic fire.

Ambrose’s green eyes struggled to focus for a second, but then his gaze locked onto Milo’s face. A smile spread beneath his mustache, and he nodded as he chambered another round in his rifle.

“Never better,” he shouted back and spared a glance over his shoulder. “Give it a minute.”

Between ripping bullets and fragments of masonry flying in every direction, Milo saw the dwarrow’s back receding behind the smoke-belching tank. Zlydzen seemed to think he could still save his creation. Milo couldn’t risk that he was right.

“We don’t have a minute,” Milo called and looked across the bridge.

Was it his imagination, or were those hungry red eyes moving between the buildings across the river?

The tank behind them gave a series of heavy clanks, then its engine stalled and its guns fell silent. Its hatch blew open with a screaming eruption of flame and shrapnel. Ammunition cooked off in a series of staggered detonations that forced both men to hunker down to avoid the discharging shells and bullets that flew in all directions.

“You young folks.” Ambrose chuckled as he lurched to his feet. “Always in a hurry.”

Shaking his head, Milo joined Ambrose on his feet, and they skirted around the burning wreck. Expecting to race after the retreating dwarrow, both staggered to stop when they saw that Zlydzen had not been so lucky when the tank exploded. Pitched over on his side, Zlydzen leaked his brazen blood from a dozen bullet wounds across his broad back, while one leg must have taken a cannon shell. The foot was still attached but only just, most of the calf having been reduced to a dangling curtain of shredded meat.

One hand clawed for the hammer he’d dropped, but swooping down like a bird of prey, Rihyani raked talons across his outstretched hand. The dwarrow swatted at her, but the fey easily dodged the clumsy swing.

“I’ll crush you,” he raved and swung again.

He missed again, but he twisted as he did and fell flat on his stomach, his head turned to Milo and Ambrose as they advanced.

“It’s over, Zlydzen,” Milo called, letting witchfire play across the head of his cane. “The Resonator is being reduced to scrap as we speak, and what’s left of your army is mine.”

“Nothing’s over,” the dwarrow snarled, trying to raise himself before collapsing onto his side with a groan.

“You don’t look so good,” Ambrose remarked dryly as he sighted down his Gewehr.

“I’m not done,” Zlydzen growled, hands curling into frustrated claws.

“Yes, you are,” Milo said and raised his cane as an ear-sundering howl rent the air.

Milo reeled, his concentration shivering to pieces as he raised his hands to his ears.

He staggered a step back as the sound receded, looking around dazedly, ears ringing.

A pair of huge red eyes set in long lupine face shone from the shadow of a collapsing alley.

“No, I’m not,” the dwarrow chuckled. “You aren’t the only one with friends.”

21

These Wounds

Borjikhan had come, and he hadn’t come alone.

The city seethed with Hiisi in various bestial forms, each more awful than the last. Turning in place, Milo saw a coal-black horse walking on two legs with a mane of blue flame and tusk-filled jaws opposite the monstrous wolf. Continuing to rotate, he saw behind him crawling onto the bridge the slippery bulk of Tsar’Vodyanoy, as hale and openly grinning as before. In juxtaposition to its lumbering, a serpentine horror with a head resembling a woman who’d traded her jaws for those of a pike gracefully slithered. Overhead something with huge leathery wings swooped by, and Milo had the impression of a batlike snout filled with teeth over a scaly body.

Second by second, more nightmares crept and slithered and loped into view. Some were the size of large dogs, some bigger than the defunct tanks that sat sizzling in the snow.

“You got closer than anyone has ever come.” Zlydzen chuckled as he slowly dragged himself into a sitting position, his wounded leg stretched out before him. “But I’ve been planning this for too long and sacrificed too much to let even an oddity like you spoil this.”

“Our fight is with the dwarrow,” Rihyani snarled as she swept her gaze across the circle of glowing, hungry eyes. “The Hiisi have always stayed out of the fighting between Shepherds and the Guardians. Coming to his side will be a declaration of war.”

A chorus of hissing, screeching, and snarling rose in mocking answer to the fey’s warning.

“Not if none ever find you, pretty pixie,” the pike-mouthed serpent cooed, lank hair hanging about her sallow face. “I have a perfect spot in my garden where I’ll keep you safe and drowned.”

The upright horse snorted and tossed its head.

“Not if I take her first,” it slavered, bilious spittle dripping from its fangs as it thrust its hips forward with a grunt. “I’ll beget a handsome crop of bastards on her before she finally breaks.”

The monsters chortled gleefully at the proposition, all except the woman-headed snake, which clapped its jaws together angrily.

They’re not an army, Milo realized. Just a band of thugs.

And bound to their old ways, Imrah mumbled in his mind, the effort of communication being a strain. Remember, these are creatures of the First Wood who see themselves as gods.

So, archaic ideas of honor and shame might mean something to them, Milo thought, his mind racing as he turned to glare at Borjikhan.

Imrah did not answer, but a sense of affirmation radiated from the cane that went beyond words.

Milo stepped toward the monsters, looking at each of them as he