Sorcerybound (World's First Wizard Book 2) by Aaron Schneider (best color ereader .TXT) 📗

“Here,” the big man said a second before he shoved the leather strap between Milo’s teeth. “This is going to hurt.”

“Whuf iz?” Milo choked out around the taste of tanned cowhide, then Ambrose tugged the knife free.

Milo was a man experienced with pain; it might not have been the worst he’d ever felt, but it was in the running for a place on the podium.

His teeth drove into leather, his scream choked by the tooth-sparing gag, and then it was all he could do to keep breathing. He felt the big man at work, binding up the wound, cruelly and carefully making sure each wrap and twist of the dressing was cinched tight.

“Up on your feet.” Ambrose grunted and gripped Milo by the elbow.

Despite every expectation, a moment later, Milo was on his feet. He leaned on his cane heavily and swore in a jagged string of incoherent profanity, but he knew he could force himself to make it to the Rollsy. Swiping sweat and tears from his face, Milo turned and was happy to see that Ambrose was binding Rihyani’s wounds.

It was also a relief to see that she had the strength to argue with him, though her voice was faint and soft.

“No, not me,” she wheezed, raising one pale arm to point at Meinir and then Beli. “They need your help.”

Ambrose ignored the entreaty and two more as Milo limped over and awkwardly squatted next to the contessa to take her pointing fingers in the hand not clutching his cane.

“Rihyani,” he croaked, pausing for a heartbeat when his voice sounded raw in his own ears. “I’m sorry, but there’s nothing we can do.”

Rihyani’s gaze swung to him, and for an instant, Milo feared she would sink her fangs into his face as her fingers dug into his hand.

“This shouldn’t happen,” she sobbed, a fierce light shining in her eyes. “This can’t.”

‘It did.” Ambrose huffed as he tugged the bandages tight, drawing a cry of pain from the contessa as she let go of Milo’s hand. The magus stared at five dots of blood where the fey’s nails had bitten into his flesh, thankful she’d kept herself from sprouting the wicked talons from before.

“Right now, we need to get out of here,” the big man added.

The shadows had deepened in the copse of trees to the point that Milo was finding it hard to see beyond the trees to the hills. The paranoid itch of being exposed to the enemy spread from the back of Milo’s head to nestle between his shoulder blades. He didn’t dare to hope that Ambrose had managed to kill or drive off all the ambushers. In truth, there could be enemy reinforcements closing off their retreat right now.

He felt the tightness in his wounded leg and saw the bandages on Rihyani already growing damp with her pale blood. They wouldn’t survive much longer if they didn’t get moving.

“Carry her and let’s get to the Rollsy,” Milo said before rising with a heavy grunt. “Lokkemand should be on his way, so let’s hope to God we can outrun the bastards long enough to reach friendly forces.”

“We should bring their bodies,” Rihyani said, obviously taking great pains to keep from sounding too desperate. “Their clan will wish to perform the rites, and—”

A trunk less than a meter from Ambrose sent up a shower of splinters an eyeblink before the report of a rifle was heard.

They were out of time.

“Their clans will have to understand that we’ll come back for them,” Milo hissed through clenched teeth. “Ambrose, let’s move.”

Ambrose scooped Rihyani up as though she weighed no more than the cloak she was wearing.

Bleeding, limping, and ducking each crack of rifles in the growing dark, the trio made their way between the trees to the patiently idling Rollsy. A second later, the engine growled and Ambrose wove through the trees to thread a course back up the hill and toward Shatili.

7

The Heresy

The Rollsy gobbled up the miles as the last of the daylight was swallowed by the horizon and the countryside became a series of undulating shades of black.

Thankfully, none of those in the vehicle required visual assistance, though Milo did have to fetch the nightsight along with more healing unguent for his leg. As he applied the former, shaking the distortions from his eyes, he looked at Rihyani in the back of the Rollsy. Her bandages were beginning to seep blood, and Milo wondered even with his leg throbbing abominably if he should work on her first, but then he remembered the failure with Meinir.

Had he made things worse by attempting to save her? There had been so much blood; Milo was no trained doctor, but it had seemed to do something, if only for a minute or so. Was it because she was fey, or did it have something to do with her attacker? Something about Ezekiel Boucher had struck Milo as unnatural, and it was not the unnerving laughter or bloodlust. As a budding magus, Milo was learning that there were clues and truths that could be discerned but not by anything as pedestrian as the five senses.

Remembering the deceased cowboy sent a shiver down Milo’s spine, but then the car thumped over a section of pitted land and Milo’s leg bounced against the bed of the truck.

Another mind-throttling surge of pain sprang up from his leg and the immediate course of action resolved itself. If Milo didn’t do something about it, he wasn’t going to be any good to anyone very soon.

Wincing and blinking back tears as he unwound the dressing, Milo finally had the clearance he needed to pour in the unguent. Steeling his mind and soul against the pain that tried to distract him, he compelled the unguent to work and soon felt the stinging itch of flesh mending. He went slow, careful lest the regenerative create a distended tumor or jar his focus to create some other even worse side effect.

The