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

climb to its feet. “I bring the Dark. I am the fear behind the howl… I…I am…”

“Dead,” Milo said, the word hard and flat as he drove the si’lat, condensed into titanic spears, through the Hiisi’s body.

Borjikhan gave a choked whine as it was dragged off its feet by the rising skewers. Milo’s outstretched hand curled into a fist, and with a chorus of grinding pops, the spears tore free. What was left of Borjikhan fell to the ground with four bloody splats.

Milo didn’t bother to look at the other gaping Hiisi as he turned a lethal glare on Zlydzen.

“Now,” he said icily, “where were we?”

The dwarrow stood leaning on his hammer, smirking at Milo.

“Come at me with all you have, Magus.” Zlydzen chuckled, sweeping one huge hand over his person. “If you are so powerful, reach out and strike me down.”

His blood up and adrenaline coursing through him, Milo nearly complied, but Imrah’s thoughts, barely a whispered impression, played across his mind.

Beware, she murmured. Beware.

Milo squinted at the leering dwarrow, then reached out with his will, the nape of his neck prickling with the premonition of something unseen.

His will felt that opaque wall he’d first experienced in Georgia, the warding that was proof against magic. Was Zlydzen hoping to make a show of blocking Milo’s magic for the benefit of the Hiisi, rallying them to attack once more? And were the wards as invulnerable as they believed?

As Milo flexed his will against them, he was certain he felt a subtle aetheric movement.

“What are you waiting for?” Zlydzen snapped, slapping a hand against his chest. “Finish it and prove yourself the victor. I would gladly give my life for the Guardians, so strike!”

Milo did not strike, but he leaned hard into the wards with his will, a sort of psychic shove, sensing something he was certain was the dwarrow on the other side. With a breathless curse, he learned he was wrong.

These were not the same wards, but something far more insidious.

If his will had been a ripple, the retaliatory magic was a tidal wave ripping across the space between them. Milo sensed it coming, but it was as though he was watching his hand turn against him. The rebounded and amplified echo of his will crashed upon his psyche, and he screamed as his senses exploded.

It was freezing cold and searing heat, crushing silence and shredding shrieks. Every synapse, fooled and fouled by the Art, experienced the extreme of every sensation. Milo reeled, dropping the fetish cane and gripping his head as the agony crested, echoing and reverberating through him.

He knew it wasn’t real, wasn’t happening, his will was telling him it was so, and his body seemed unable to believe it wasn’t true.

He felt a terrible psychic tremor growing inside him like some sort of eldritch feedback screech. Milo felt it shivering along the connections binding the si’lat to him and even the shade empowering his coat. The feedback grew and the magical links began to tremble violently, bleeding essence.

Milo threw back his head and screamed both physically and metaphysically as the feedback exploded out of him. Snow, dust, and the remains of Borjikhan flew away from him as a pressure wave of detonating magic ripped through his frame.

The si’lat sank to the street, inert sand to be blown around by the chill winds of Petrograd.

Milo’s blackcoat hung about him once more, nothing more than a piece of cloth, its pockets filled with the dust of that which once filled its extra-dimensional pockets.

The magus sank to the ground and retched, then raised his head at the sound of Zlydzen’s grating cackle.

“Behold the mighty magus, bright hope of humanity,” the dwarrow squawked triumphantly as he turned to the gaping Hiisi. “See with what poise and power he claims his victory.”

Milo spat out a curse along with more bile, which made the shrunken monster titter all the louder.

“So genteel, too.” Zlydzen snorted, his eyes gleaming with delight.

“My brothers-in-arms,” the dwarrow said with a raised voice. “I hope this renews your faith in our cause. True, the Resonator has been damaged beyond use by this fool and his pawns, but there’s no reason we cannot build again. Everything lies within my notes for an even grander design and one less dependent.”

The incredulous looks of the Hiisi obviously chafed him.

“Yes, the Guardians have faced a setback, but our greatest enemy lies at your feet, doesn’t he?”

Zlydzen turned back to Milo and gave a disdainful flick of his overlarge hand.

“Devour him if you like, but let us quit this place. We have so much work to do.”

Zlydzen gave one last sneering look at Milo and turned his back.

“These humans won’t exterminate themselves.”

The dwarrow pitched forward, his head coming apart in a spray of copper blood.

The cranial explosion occurred as the Gewehr’s throaty roar echoed through the streets of Petrograd.

Ambrose lowered the rifle from his shoulder and spat into the snow.

“Exterminate this, Armageddon that,” Ambrose muttered. “Why can’t we murder each other without all the delusions of grandeur?”

Rihyani was at Milo’s side as soon as the dwarrow’s body hit the street, drawing him to his feet. Milo felt as though every bone in his body was broken, and he leaned without shame or pretense on her shoulder.

Despite his fatigue, he felt the tension in her svelte form, and he saw that the hand not holding him was splayed, talons exposed. His eyes traveled up to her face, and he saw her fangs bared as her dark eyes swept left to right and back again. He followed her gaze and saw the Hiisi leaning in hungrily.

“Thank you for removing that little fool.” Czernoboch snorted, his eyes settling on Rihyani. “Things were growing stale with him anyway.”

“Very much appreciated, yes,” the serpentine creature warbled in her watery voice. “But now that all that’s settled, we still have to decide what to do with you.”

“Couldn’t say you owe us one and leave it at that?” Ambrose grunted as he raised his rifle back to his shoulder.

The Hiisi