Wizardborn (World's First Wizard Book 3) by Aaron Schneider (classic books for 11 year olds .txt) 📗

or were they even now braving the tempest of black wings and darker spirits?

Who was he fooling? He knew Ambrose and Rihyani were looking for him.

His mind narrowed to a needle-pointed hook, and with a sweeping grab, he snatched the thin strands of essence that bound the si’lat to him and gave them a savage twist.

RETURN

The shades resisted, straining until Milo feared they would break free, but then he felt his blood and soul humming through the connection. As long as he lived, the construct could not—would not—escape his control. In some perverse way, it was part of him.

Milo’s mind returned to the world around him, and he tried to decide where he was going. Conscripts were for fighting and dying, more the latter than the former, and as such, his training in fieldcraft amongst the penal forces was lacking. That was compounded by the fact that his youth had been spent in strictly urban environments. Milo looked at the venerable trees standing as though in silent judgment around him, and he felt the unease of being in an alien world. He was unfamiliar, unwelcome, and unprepared.

He was considering either wind riding up to the canopy again or trying some creative necromistry when he jumped at the sound of wings fluttering overhead. He whirled, cane and pistol both raised.

On a low branch of a nearby tree, the monstrous bird squatted, except it was lessened.

The huge, twisted avian was now human-sized and had it stood on the ground, Milo doubted the top of its feathered head would reach his chin. More than being humanoid in size, the creature now seemed closer to human in shape as well. Its wings resembled elongated arms tipped with fingers, no less, and the legs had changed direction so that it now sat on the branch with feet dangling over the forest floor.

The head cocked to one side, round black eyes staring and inscrutable before the malformed beak opened.

“Funny!” it cried in a harsh and braying attempt at Russian. “Funny little man!”

Milo glared at the creature, eager to launch lead and eldritch energies at it but hesitating as it continued to watch him. If it wanted to kill him, it didn’t seem to be in much of a hurry, and since he felt the si’lat swarm seething toward him, he decided he would take advantage of this.

“So, you don’t seem in a rush to kill me anymore,” Milo called without relaxing. “Does that mean you’d rather talk than fight?”

The corvid creature twitched its head to the other side and back again before its feathered shoulders bunched into a sort of shrug.

“Maybe,” it squawked and continued to stare.

Slowly, Milo lowered his pistol, half-expecting to be rushed by an unseen attacker. When no attack came, he lowered the cane, planting it in front of him as he slid his Luger into its holster.

Do you have eyes on it? Milo asked, one hand resting lightly on the eagle skull.

Yes, Imrah replied, though he felt something like a crack in her stoic presence. But Hiisi are not to be trusted.

“Depends on what I have to say, huh?” Milo replied, chuckling a little, but he froze when the bird suddenly stiffened. Milo thought he’d caused offense and was scrambling to think of an apology when the crow’s beak gaped wide and it let out a grating screech of laughter.

“Yes, yes,” it squawked, taloned feet dancing in mid-air as it chortled like a hideous child. “Depends on the answers. Answers for Borji.”

The wizard frowned, struggling to keep his edge as he watched the buffoonish antics of the creature sitting in the tree. Could this be the same monster that had snatched him up and borne him away?

“Borji?” Milo said, determined to keep talking. He sensed that the si’lat swarm was a minute out, maybe two. “Is that your name?”

The raven-thing did a quicker and less raucous version of the ugly laughing routine. Milo was fairly sure it was answering in the negative, but nothing much about the creature made sense, and Imrah’s warning was still fresh in Milo’s mind.

He couldn’t afford to take anything for granted.

Do you want me to cook the cretin? Imrah offered. Milo felt the fiery energies build in the raptor’s skull until his fingers felt sweaty where they rested on the cane.

Not yet, Milo thought, watching as the little bird-man hopped up to stand on the branch and then sprang into the air.

“Black sand nice trick,” it croaked as it beat its wings in an ungainly flutter. “Lempo will peck this from your brain. Some day!”

Milo flinched as the creature—Lempo?—darted between the tree branches and out of sight.

“Well, that was one of the strangest conversations I’ve ever had,” Milo muttered as he rolled his bruised shoulders and heard a series of clicks. “But at least I can get back to the others.”

Don’t move, Imrah warned, the words rolling up to Milo’s mind like an icy waterfall in reverse.

“What is it now?” he groaned, looking through the trees for whatever new madness awaited him.

Straight ahead, Imrah whispered to his mind. Don’t panic and run.

Milo stared between the tree trunks and was about to demand the ghul be less vague when he noticed the deepening darkness moving toward him. It took Milo a moment to realize how large it was, not because of the darkness which accompanied it, but also because his mind was rebelling at the silence of its advance. Whatever was coming had to be at least as massive as a draft horse, long-bodied and hulking, but there wasn’t even the rustle of evergreen needles as it came. Nothing that big should be so quiet, and Milo felt a prickle of fear on the back of his neck as the primal corners of his brain sounded the ancient alarm: PREDATOR!

Milo gripped the cane in both hands, squeezing the unyielding stone in his clammy palms, an anchor to counter his hammering heart. Where was the si’lat? Would it even matter?

“Borji, I assume?” Milo called, proud that there was only