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

blood and gray matter woke the standing stone they were standing next to. Percy Astor slowly lowered his pistol, his bandaged hand held up placatingly.

“My sacrifice made, I would also like to be introduced to the marquis,” the American declared in a calm, clear voice before nodding at the smeared bottom of the giant’s foot. “I will also be needing my companion to join me if you would be so kind.”

15

The Audience

With firm strokes of his punting pole, Bakbak-Devi propelled their raft up the languid river and into the deepening beauty of the Lost Vale. The moon crowned the sky, and its silver light danced across the dark pines. Each one seemed plated in the precious metal, argent needles susurrating softly on the wind. Down amongst the trunks, the mist wound and flowed with currents of its own, and upon those ephemeral streams could be seen miniscule shapes flashing and glinting like fireflies in shades of blue, yellow, and green to reveal tiny imitations of horses, serpents, and men, all borne on gossamer wings. Milo spotted stags and leopards moving amongst the mist, breaching the foggy tides like antlered leviathans or golden-eyed whales, barely sparing the humans a look as they went about their nightly business.

Drifting over everything was a sense of wonder as palpable as a haunting melody that was just beyond hearing, yet all this grandeur was wasted on the men on the raft. Seated upon pine stumps, they paid no heed to the enchanted wood unfolding around them, only having time to share suspicious glares.

“I still can’t believe we ain’t shootin’ ‘em both.”

Percy gave a heavy sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose vigorously.

“And that is why you have your job and I have mine,” he said sullenly under his breath before turning to Milo and Ambrose with an apologetic smile. “I’m terribly sorry. I could make excuses for him, but they’d never be sufficient. I’ll have to beg your indulgence a while longer.”

Milo, having been forced to repair his leg with healing unguents with both men looking over his shoulder, was not in the most diplomatic of moods.

“Don’t worry,” Milo replied coolly. “The feeling is mutual.”

Ambrose gave a low grunt of assent.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Percy sighed, raising a hand to tip his hat. “Then I suppose we are better served by fixing our attention on the scenery.”

Milo made a hard thrust with his chin and bared his teeth in a smile to challenge the one the scalp hunter wore.

“You first,” he snarled through the unfriendly grin.

Shaking his head, the American turned his back to them. Ezekiel sat looking askance at Milo and Ambrose, his tongue lapping across his stained, smiling teeth. It was galling and terrifying in equal measure that even after being ground to paste under the ogre’s foot, Ezekiel had recovered in minutes unmarked and unfazed. Milo felt a quiver of uncertainty as he stared into the dark, mirthless eyes.

For all his giggles and grinning, Ezekiel Boucher’s eyes were as cold and soulless as anything Milo had seen in his short, terrible life, and that included the ghuls of Ifreedahm.

“Don’t worry, I still owe you a barkin’, partner,” the cowboy cooed as he reached out to tickle the scalps hanging from his indestructible buckskins. “I haven't forgotten.”

Milo was about to form a retort, but before he could say anything, a pine stump hurtled through the air and took Ezekiel in the chest. The slight man’s chest buckled with a tremendous crack as the hefty disc of wood carried him over the edge of the boat. Percy gave a subdued “Oh, goodness” as he shifted away from the water thrown up by Ezekiel’s exit from the raft, but soon returned to staring out across the Vale.

Milo looked to see Ambrose standing over him, limbs trembling with rage as he spat curses of remarkable poetry and potency in French.

“Thanks,” Milo said, but the big man didn’t seem to hear him.

Bakbak-Devi paused from his punting to dip his pole into the river, while half his faces turned to frown at Ambrose.

“DO NOT DO THAT AGAIN,” the giant instructed, his tone as firm and long-suffering as someone speaking to a particularly willful child. “THE HEXED ONE IS A GUEST OF THE MARQUIS SAME AS YOU, GEHENNA-GET. DO NOT TEST MY MASTER’S HOSPITALITY OR MY PATIENCE FURTHER.”

For a single moment, Ambrose looked as though he would challenge the many-headed ogre, but with a long trembling breath, he let the tension slide from his shoulders. His limbs ceased to quiver, and he gave a slow nod as he bowed his shoulders slightly.

“I understand,” he said solemnly. “My apologies to you and to your master.”

Bakbak-Devi returned the nod and turned all his faces to the river.

“Gehenna-get?” Milo asked softly, eliciting a shrug from Ambrose.

“A new one for me,” the big man confessed, crossing his arms.

Milo frowned as he turned back and noticed Percy watching Ambrose intently, a curious gleam in his eye. It only lasted a second before he turned back to contemplating the river and the forest, but at that moment, a swelling sense of dread plucked warningly across his spine.

Just then, the punting pole emerged from the water with a sodden Ezekiel clinging to the timber. His hair and hat hung down, so he looked one step above a drowning victim, but his smile still stretched from ear to ear.

With his peculiar gentleness, Bakbak-Dovi deposited the cowboy on the raft and proceeded to send them gliding up the river.

“I notice you have no apology for my compatriot,” Mr. Astor stated as he continued watching the vista beyond the boat.

“I most certainly do not,” Ambrose rumbled.

“Oh, that’s all right, Percy.” Ezekiel chuckled as he rose to shake the water from his hat.

He turned to grin at Ambrose.

“Better luck next time, big fella,”

Ambrose grinned back but didn’t budge otherwise.

“It was the smell, sweetie. Didn’t want to spend any more time having to smell you.”

The manse of the marquis sprawled past the water’s edge, a