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

was farthest from the courtyard. The wind howled across the hilltop, but he was certain he heard the rumble of idling vehicles. Even if the Americans had gathered more mercenaries, those that had attacked Rihyani and company had numbered nearly a thirty, so half as many men could be expected by the vehicles. Then there was whatever new deviant companion Percy had acquired that liked to burn things. An American, maybe? Setting things on fire seemed to Milo a very American sort of thing.

They made it to the belltower and clambered down its rough-hewn side without incident, and both men heaved a sigh of relief.

“If those bastards have touched my rifle…” Ambrose hissed acidly as they crept along the base of the belltower toward the courtyard where they’d left the Rollsy.

“Glad your mind is on the task at hand,” Milo muttered.

They reached the corner of the belltower, and Milo peered around to assess the situation.

He silently swore and pulled back, then shuffled over to let Ambrose steal a glance. Ambrose gave his own curse and slid back to exchange unsure glances with Milo.

The courtyard was crowded with three squat canvas-backed trucks, which blocked the view of the Rollsy and everything else, for that matter. There was a driver in each truck, but that left at least a few mercenaries unaccounted for. Both men stood, pressed flat against the belltower, thinking and listening, but the only sound to be heard was the whine of the wind, underpinned by the growl of the truck engines.

Milo’s mind raced as his fingers darted into the various pockets of his coat, nervous energy leaving him double- or triple-checking the paraphernalia on his person. He had a plan forming, but it all depended on him having…

His fingers brushed three corked vials, and his face broke into a wicked grin.

He drew out the first vial from the extra-dimensional pocket woven into his coat, giving the long glass tube a little shake that set the black grit within to twinkling with unnatural light.

Ambrose saw what Milo had produced, and he gave an approving nod.

“I’ve got a plan,” Milo said, his voice loud enough to be heard over the keening wind.

The men sitting behind the wheels of the trucks didn’t have a chance to understand their peril until it was far too late. Like their companions tearing through Gergeti Trinity Church, they were all veteran fighters, men of the mountains who’d made their living fighting foreign powers who sought to dominate their homeland and occasionally taking work with those willing to make generous contributions to their cause. Hammered relentlessly upon the anvil of life, they were hard men, willing to do hard things.

They’d fought Russians and they’d fought Ottomans and now the Germans, and to them, one foreigner was pretty much the same as the next when it came to fighting and dying, slight variations in tactics and plunder notwithstanding. The fact was, they were experienced at guerrilla warfare and had faced “superior” forces in the past.

Yet, they’d never faced a necromist, and so were singularly unprepared when coils of black sand began to slither under their vehicles.

Only one of the drivers, the one parked closest to the ramshackle German vehicle, noticed the flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye, but he quickly dismissed it. He chalked it up to the wind kicking up a little dervish, gone as soon as you realized it was there. After all, professional freedom fighter or not, he had other things on his mind.

The business with the Americans had been more dangerous than expected, and when their platoon's commanding officer had threatened to abandon the Americans, they’d doubled the offered fee, including the pay of those slain. Seeing as this driver had two cousins among the dead, this turn of events struck him as significant. The one man who might have done something was too busy trying to plan what percent would be fair to give to the men’s families and what percent to keep for himself to pay real attention to the trickle of glittering black that slid under his vehicle.

He was still trying to work out percentages in his head when a ribbon of congealing midnight slithered up the side of his truck, lanced through the door window, and tore out his throat like the other two drivers.

The shattering of glass could be heard even over the hellish wind, and it drew the attention of the men standing watch at the church door and by the Rollsy. As one, they turned, and after giving a chorus of piercing whistles, they slunk back toward the vehicles, rifles ready.

Seeing their fellows slumped in their seats, windows shattered, they took positions along the wall bordering the church, eyes searching for snipers. That ensured they had nowhere to run when Ambrose and Milo sprang on them.

Ambrose leaped on the first man, delivering a single punch that shattered the man’s jaw and left him senseless. Milo hit the man behind the first with a magically enhanced stroke of his cane that left him poleaxed. The last man had only enough time to open his mouth for a scream before his cries were suffocated by a blast of witchfire that instantly immolated everything from the shoulder up.

“Grab a carbine,” Ambrose growled as he snatched up the first two men’s strange firearms.

Milo complied, taking half a moment to wonder about the solidly built weapons' shorter barrel and the strange case for its ammunition. A quick glance showed labels and markings in English. The rifles must have been new American designs, which explained the impressive firepower the mercenaries had put out during their ambush.

Milo raised his head from inspecting the weapon to see if anyone was coming from inside the church, but it seemed those within had not been alerted.

“Ready when you are,” Ambrose whispered hoarsely, one carbine in hand, the other slung over his shoulder.

Milo nodded, and they both made a run for the Rollsy, which they could now see standing at the