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

were not his thoughts. Unbidden, he remembered that moment when the marquis’ “gift” of experiencing the Art had nearly overwhelmed him and he’d been aware, for an instant, of something sharing the space of his consciousness.

Who are you? Milo asked the darkness within him and felt a shiver race through as he felt the toothy smile behind the answering voice.

You already know, my wayward pupil.

“Magus?” Ambrose called, inching his way across the seat to give Milo a shake. “You’re making me nervous.”

Milo felt the darkling awareness recede inside him at Ambrose’s touch and words, but he knew it was biding time, not retreating. Gooseflesh rippled across Milo’s body, and it was all he could do not to reach down and rip his flesh with wild, clawing hands.

“Milo?” Ambrose’s voice was almost pleading. “What is it?”

The magus ran a hand across his brow where icy sweat had sprung, then stared at the dampened hand as though fearing it would twist into a ghul’s claw or worse, the unnatural spidery talon of a shade.

“Imrah,” Milo murmured, fighting to get the words out as he kept his gorge in. “Her shade. It’s inside me.”

Ambrose swore long and bitterly, then collapsed in the driver’s seat.

“One bridge at a time,” Milo offered hollowly, but he couldn’t bring himself to grin at the joke.

Ambrose rolled his gaze back to Milo, and there was nothing but heartache in his green eyes. Milo, allergic as he was to pity, was uncomfortable under the weight of the stare, but neither of them had the strength to break free of the shared stare’s gravity for several heartbeats.

Ambrose finally turned away, head shaking, as he straightened and drove his foot down on the accelerator.

“Let’s go save the girl before we plummet to our deaths,” he growled.

“One bridge,” Milo murmured as the wind pulled across his face and hair, the two words a feeble candle against the dark inside of him.

It was better than nothing.

Their descent to the courtyard of Shatili was as disruptive as the sight that Milo and Ambrose witnessed once they sank out of the sky. The soldiers dropped their burdens on the cobbles of the courtyard, at least one crate splitting and spilling its contents, while they stared at the settling Rollsy.

“What are they doing?” Milo asked as he rose in his seat.

Ambrose carefully peeled his hands from the wheel, and with a steadying breath, he reached down and turned the key off, and the tires settled with a turgid thump. The engine was still clunking to a stop as Ambrose looked around, the first trickle of color rising into his cheeks. His face curdled as though he were smelling something foul.

“Looks like they’re packing up to go,” he said before throwing his shoulder against the cab door. “Where are you boys going?”

The soldiers blinked and gaped, then they exchanged sheepish looks and set about gathering up what they’d dropped in their shock.

“Was everyone struck deaf after we left?” Ambrose shouted as he slid out of the cab. “Don’t tell me you are all so busy that you can’t hear me.”

Milo joined the big man on the cobbles, then took a quick look around and noticed more than one sour glare from soldiers attempting to appear busy. Whatever had happened since they’d left, it was certain that any allies they might have had before seemed to have had a change of heart.

“We need to find Rihyani,” Milo said softly, but his words were lost on Ambrose, who stepped forward with an angry stomp.

“Where do you think you are going?” he demanded, hooking a thumb toward the ravaged countryside they’d passed over moments before. “The enemy’s at the gates, and you’re going to slink off with your tails between your legs?”

One of the soldiers struggling with the burst crate rose and shook a jagged spar of wood at Ambrose.

“We’re escorts, not a bunch of commandos,” he snarled before throwing the broken plank down in front of the big man.

“You’re soldiers, aren’t you?” Ambrose shot back, kicking the plank away disdainfully. “Or did your manhood freeze off during the winter?”

“Ambrose,” Milo began, but a premonition of something coming at him had him twisting around in time to see Lokkemand’s fist coming for his face. He dodged back and away from the crushing blow, so it took him in the chest instead of the jaw. The strike was like a mule’s kick, and Milo was thrown backward. His back struck the hood with a sound like a gong.

“You’ve ruined everything!” Captain Lokkemand bellowed over the echoing note of Milo’s impact.

Ambrose, moving with shocking speed, spun and leveled his rifle at the raging captain.

“Touch him again, and I’ll empty your skull all over this courtyard.”

Lokkemand’s gray eyes were molten silver with ecstatic rage, but he checked his advance as he looked down the long barrel of the Gewehr.

“One word and you’ll both be dead in a traitor’s shallow grave,” the captain snarled, sweeping an arm at the soldiers across the courtyard. With that single phrase, the muted embarrassment of the soldiers was transmuted into the crackling tension of promised violence.

“That’s going to make little difference to you since you’ll be dead,” Ambrose said in a chillingly calm tone before raising his voice so everyone could hear him. “I’ve got five rounds in this clip. Any of you so much as calls the magus a name, I drop him and then four more. After that, you’ll probably have me, but know five will die with me.”

No one moved, and for a moment, no one even breathed. Simon Ambrose did not need to lie, and every man there knew it.

Trying to steady his thready breathing, Milo climbed back to his feet as he looked around the courtyard. His chest ached abominably, and his heart still felt like it was trying to catch up with the beats it had missed after the impact. Despite this distraction, he could plainly see the dueling instincts of fear and wrath in every soldier’s eyes around them.