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

For the first time, Imrah looked uncomfortable.

“The possibilities are nearly endless,” she replied woodenly. “Even before founding the Guardians, he’d been interested in designs and theories that had incredible, devastating potential. Nearly all of them were incomplete or untested, but if he’s deigned to work with this warlord, then he most likely has several at his disposal. He was the sort who liked to keep his options open.”

“What sort of designs?”

“Vessels of demonic contagion, machines to drive armies mad, and engines to level cities,” Imrah said, a hint of impatience heating her words. “I wasn’t exaggerating about the potential. If he’s decided to make a definitive move, he more than likely has the means to do incredible damage even if the scheme fails.”

The color draining from Milo’s face as he remembered the horror and destruction of Kimaris. Imrah had mentioned that her mentor had shown her how to draw him into service, as ill-fated as that had been, and now Milo could be facing one who possessed innumerable such doomsday creations.

“And would you have any idea how to stop these sorts of weapons?” Milo asked, trying to force down the panic that threatened to bubble up into his voice.

“Perhaps,” she said, her face growing pensive. “I was his acolyte, but as I said, the designs were incomplete, though with a working knowledge of the concepts, I could give you a better chance than you’d have alone.”

Milo turned to Ambrose and Rihyani and issued a weary shrug.

“I don’t see that we have much of a choice.”

“There’s always a choice,” Ambrose growled, but Rihyani stilled him with a gentle hand upon his shoulder.

“True,” she said gently before looking at Milo with golden pupils held steady upon his gaze. “Whatever you decide, I'll stand by you.”

Milo gave her a thankful nod and turned to look at Ambrose, who was glaring past him at Imrah’s impassive face.

“And you?” Milo asked quietly.

Ambrose’s gaze settled on the floor, and he heaved a mighty sigh before looking up to meet Milo’s stare.

“To the end.”

Milo nodded once more and turned back to Imrah.

“All right,” he said, drawing a centering breath. “Let’s do this.”

21

The Fires

“I’m never going to get used to this!” Ambrose groaned as he tightened his grip on Milo’s and Rihyani’s outstretched forearms despite the straps which suspended him between them. Despite his most desperate hopes, Rihyani had stated she didn’t possess the potency of the marquis to carry the Rollsy, and they’d had to make do with a cobbled-together harness.

Ambrose’s complaints had been renewed every few minutes since they’d left Shatili.

Milo wanted to join in but feared if he was distracted for a moment, his first real experience wind riding would end very badly. Instead, his watering eyes remained fixed on the horizon, and his will pressed outward like a vast sail.

The binding of Imrah to his cane and preparing a little surprise for the inevitable communist occupation had taken days, so when they made ready to leave Shatili fortress, things were rushed. He’d received a crash course from Rihyani on the basics of wind riding, which seemed to be about willing the very air around him to believe he was light enough to be borne on a cushion of it. As with most things having to do with the Art, it was a simple, intuitive thing to accomplish the basics, even though it seemed impossible from a rational perspective that he had to diligently remind himself to not think about lest everything come undone and he plummeted to his death.

Despite his basic proficiency, Milo recognized quickly that he was far from the sort of easy mastery Rihyani displayed. Even now sailing along beside her, he could tell most of their forward movement was due to her dragging both humans along. Milo may have been carried by the currents of directed air, but they were not in a hurry to get him where he needed to go, and he guessed on his own skill, he would be lucky to do more than float along like a rather turgid balloon. He also found he struggled to maintain a steady altitude, and more than once, he found himself incredibly thankful that he was connected through Ambrose to her since he might have sailed heavenward and lost his nerve.

A meander upward followed by a sudden and final descent seemed a rather poor way to end his first attempt at flight.

They’d set off in the evening in hopes of avoiding being spotted by Stalin’s forces, and also not trusting that the full week of amnesty would last, given the message they’d sent. Thankfully, the darkness didn’t seem to bother Ambrose or Rihyani, and Milo had taken a dose of nightsight before they’d left, so navigation over the night-blackened countryside wasn’t too much trouble.

The mountainous land rolled by beneath them, scattered homesteads and farms with cheery, fire-brightened windows housing those blissfully ignorant of their passing. War and bloodshed were once more about to descend on a country that had known much in its long history, but the small homes built on hillsides or in valleys still housed families gathering to break bread. They seemed like tiny bastions to Milo, each declaring a silent, enduring defiance to the darkness. Milo wasn’t certain the defiance was warranted, especially now in a world filled with monsters and demons, but if he could will himself to fly, he supposed he could will himself to believe that maybe some of those little holdouts of honest people enjoying simple pleasures could outlast what was to come.

They sailed over Roshka, a village in a river-gouged valley, and righted their direction for a straight run south. There were no major roads through this part of the country, the closest being rough tracks made by horses or shepherded flocks wandering familiar paths, but that mattered little to them, riding the nightly currents. The closest major road that could have borne vehicles lay to the south and west near Pasanauri, which might