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

“Now, where’s the fun in that?” rumbled Tsar’Vodyanoy.

The numbness of Zlydzen’s attack was beginning to dissipate, but Milo knew that by the time he recovered, it would be too late. He’d be dead or very much wishing he was. Looking at the gaping maw of Tsar’Vodyanoy, he thought about the skeletons formerly moldering in the beast’s vast stomach.

It was almost hilarious that he’d emptied the creature’s belly, only to be one of those about to fill it.

Ambrose shrugged and looked at Milo and Rihyani.

“Been a pleasure,” he said with a warm smile, then took aim.

“GET DOWN!” roared a voice so strong and clear it demanded to be obeyed.

Reflexively Milo and Ambrose dropped, Rihyani’s inhuman agility allowing her to make up the difference. It was just as well since the world erupted with the crackling fire of over a hundred rifles and the chattering thunder of several machine guns. The air over the trio’s head was infested with hissing metal that ripped through it at lacerating speed.

The Hiisi, ancient and evil creatures, their very skin worked with fell charms, were not easily harmed, but the sheer volume of firepower that poured on them began to tell instantly. The smaller of their number suffered the worst, shrieking and yowling as they sought to vanish into the shadows. The larger ones, kings and queens among their godlike kindred, took a few abortive steps at the three cowering on the ground, but each Hiisi that fled meant the fury of the manmade storm focused on those that remained. Less than thirty seconds later, the largest of the monsters decided to beat a retreat.

“One day,” Tsar’Vodyanoy roared. It was the last creature to vanish, heaving its bulk in a ponderous dive into the Neva.

The chiming music of shell casings striking wet cement had ceased echoing when Milo, Ambrose, and Rihyani raised their heads and beheld their rescuers.

Captain Lokkemand stood at the foot of the bridge, black coat whipping around him, arms clasped behind his back. Were he not surrounded by an entire company of soldiers, he might have seemed like a thoughtful man taking in the scenery.

“SECURE FORWARD POSITION,” he pronounced in that same indefatigable bellow, and after a chorus of acknowledgment from his junior officers, the soldiers rushed to obey.

Milo and his compatriots climbed unsteadily to their feet, hardly daring to believe what they saw as soldiers crossed the bridge and filed past them.

Lokkemand approached them at a far more leisurely pace, hands still clasped behind him. He looked around languidly, seeming like a man at complete ease despite his men having to unleash hell on a host of monsters only moments ago.

“I could see you had the situation well in hand,” the captain remarked dryly, then nodded. “Still, I didn’t want the men to feel they came all the way here for nothing. Sorry if that stole the show a bit. I know how you three like to be stupidly heroic.”

Milo and Ambrose exchanged looks, and Rihyani, seeing their faces, could only roll her eyes.

“Simon,” Milo said with a wry grin, “I do believe the captain called us heroes.”

Simon Ambrose grunted and nodded sagely.

“About damned time.”

22

These Pieces

Milo was back in Berlin and within the general staff building, sitting at a table, staring at General Erich Ludendorff with sweat threatening to pool where he sat.

“My apologies,” Colonel Jorge muttered as he crept from the door to the table, an office folder in hand. “I wasn’t informed this meeting had been moved up to today until thirty minutes ago.”

Ludendorff made a disgruntled noise in the back of his fleshy throat, the sound malignant with tumorous warbles.

“Sit down, Sebastian,” the old man grunted impatiently, then coughed into a sodden handkerchief. When the cloth came away, there was a smudge of blood clinging to the general’s lip.

Jorge’s hand gripped the back of the chair next to Milo, fingers clamped tight for support, but he did not sit down.

“I’m known at this point for arriving when I will,” the colonel continued as though Ludendorff hadn’t spoken. “But this is not one of those cases. Rather, it seems as though someone was once again trying to hold official yet confidential proceedings concerning one of my subordinates without me being present.”

A small man with a hatchet of a face and round spectacles spoke up in the sort of officious nasal voice that begged for the speaker to be punched squarely in the nose.

“The general is under no obligation to—”

“Oh, shut up, Heinrich!” Ludendorff snarled thickly before turning a baleful eye on Jorge. “Sit down, Jorge, for God’s sake.”

Jorge shuffled into his seat, giving Milo a surreptitious wink.

With the colonel by his side, he realized the only ones missing were Karl Mayr and his cronies. Milo allowed himself a grim smile at the realization, even though he was quite certain that was the reason he was here. The murder of superior officers could not be condoned, no matter how much they deserved it.

“I suppose you both think quite highly of yourselves, hmmm?” the general remarked acidly. “Perhaps you think your efforts deserve some sort of medal?”

Milo stared back blankly, unsure of what the old man was talking about. He’d come to this meeting hoping to avoid a firing squad, not to have a bauble pinned to his chest.

“I’ve already received more than my fair share of such things,” Jorge said, waving the suggestion away as though it was on a dish in front of him. “Though I can’t speak for Volkohne. Perhaps he would find the novelty of the experience worthwhile, though I must tell you, my boy, it grows tedious very quickly.”

Jorge gave Milo another wink and turned his knowing smile on the general, who continued to watch them both with blatant irritation. Milo felt as though they were sharing some joke he had not been let in on.

“I’m afraid the magus will have to wait for another day to receive his commendations,” Ludendorff remarked dryly, shuffling a few pieces of paper