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

the pile of apocalyptic detritus as two more cannon shots plowed furrows where they’d lain seconds earlier.

“Keep moving,” Milo shouted over his shoulder as he rose to his feet and ran doubled over to a building that still stood a few feet away.

Machine guns chugged, sending up stinging splashes of broken plaster and stone around them, but somehow Milo and Percy staggered into what looked like the storeroom of a shop. Kicking over broken crates and knocking over shelves, they found another door that opened to the storefront, where they leaped over a counter and hunkered down.

Cannons boomed and machine guns flung a hail of shots at them, but nothing seemed to be striking too close for comfort. Chests heaving and soaked in sweat, both men lay against the store’s counter and caught their breath.

Percy began to inspect his thoroughly ravaged vest, jacket, and slacks, while Milo stretched his mind to his dwindling army.

Between enemy fire and the shades attacking each other, he’d lost nearly a fifth of his forces in the space of a minute, maybe two. Worse, he wasn’t sure he had a way forward with the forces he had left. If he tried to press across the bridge, he’d lose more, and those lost would see their shades inflicting greater casualties.

And the Hiisi hadn’t even come into play yet.

There was the crunch of broken glass under boots, and Milo saw not-Ezekiel stride into the shop through the broken front door. It sported several new wounds across its body and one side of the face had been rent, now just flaps of sickly gray flesh hanging off discolored bone. The exposed teeth made the manic smile even larger and more horrific than before.

“Found you,” it called in a thick, syrupy voice, and Milo noticed that something had punctured the body’s throat, from which dark, almost tarry blood now ran.

“Yes, you did,” Percy said, sounding quite put out as he made a feeble and futile attempt to smooth his jacket. “Wasn’t the plan for you to help with the distraction and then return to me?”

The un-man spread his gnawed hands wide and gestured expansively at Percy and then the shop.

“I’m here now, aren’t I?”

Percy made a disgusted sound in the back of his throat and shook his head.

There was another crunch of glass outside and Ambrose came jogging into the store, shouldering roughly past not-Ezekiel, who only giggled.

“We need to do something about those tanks,” he rumbled with a nod at the far wall, beyond which the sounds of battle were evident. “And I think I’ve got an idea.”

Milo looked up at him from his place on the floor, trying not to wince every time he felt a shade abandon its body to the wraith and expire. If things kept up at this rate, it wouldn’t be long before half of his forces were gone.

“I’m all ears,” Milo muttered.

“We’ll need Rihyani and the killer sand,” Ambrose began.

“Si’lat,” Milo replied, but Ambrose waved off the correction.

“Whatever. You’re going to give one to me and one to this thing,” the big man continued, tilting his head at the un-man. “You’ll need to be ready to set them loose as soon as we pop them into the tanks, but once inside, they should make quick work of the men. That should give us a chance of making it across that bridge.”

Milo started shaking his head before Ambrose finished speaking.

“I’ve only got two si’lat,” Milo protested. “You’ve got three tanks.”

“Let me worry about that,” Ambrose growled. “I’m giving you a chance to get your army across the bridge, and you’re going to whine to me about arithmetic?”

Milo met the big man’s eyes and remembered the first thing he’d learned about his bodyguard: Simon Ambrose didn’t need to lie. If he said he could take care of the tanks, then by Heaven and Hell, he would.

“All right.” Milo groaned as he struggled to his feet. “But where’s Rihyani?”

In answer, a feline yowl overlaid across a corvid squawk somewhere above the street outside. Milo and Ambrose rushed to the exploded display window as a thrashing comet came hurtling out of the dark, snow-strewn sky.

Milo had the fleeting impression of enormous black wings and something that was a blur of fangs and talons. The plunging spectacle struck the street with a chorus of crunching bones and an eruption of black feathers. Shrieking black birds of every shape and size rocketed out of the dark cloud, leaving the fey to spin and rake her claws at empty air.

“COWARD!” she screamed after the fleeing corvids, then whirled around to fix Milo with a savage stare.

“The Hiisi are coming.”

Milo looked at Ambrose, who nodded and stepped to Rihyani.

“I’m going to need you to make a little storm for me, mon chéri.”

“This is going to be fun,” the un-man burbled in the back of its ruined throat.

Ambrose growled as he adjusted his grip around the creature’s narrow waist.

“One more word and I’ll be doing this by myself,” Ambrose growled.

Not one to miss out on such suicidally violent antics, the thing that had been Ezekiel Bouche settled for a gurgling titter of laughter before holding out a bony hand to Milo.

“I’m still not sure how this is going to work.” The magus sighed as he handed over an orb while doing his best not to touch the ravaged fingers. “But we don’t have time for another plan.”

“Your confidence in me is inspiring.” Ambrose chuckled as he reached out to take his orb.

They all turned to Rihyani, who’d spent the last few minutes communing with the winds through the Art. High overhead, dark clouds had begun to gather, though not a snowflake had fallen since she’d stepped aside to begin her efforts.

“You two should get inside.” She nodded at Milo and Percy. “This isn’t going to be gentle.”

Not needing a second warning, both men darted into the store as the winds began to pick up once more.

Milo watched from inside, feeling the deteriorating state of the shade-driven like a rough