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

“Good idea,” Ambrose murmured, his eyes sweeping across the burning village. “You have something particular in mind?”

Milo’s face broke into a wolfish smile, his teeth catching the firelight.

“I read once that a commander burned the boats of his army to keep them from retreating,” Milo said, his fingers tightening on his cane. “Imagine how quickly that army would have come apart if they thought only half the boats were burned.”

Ambrose drew his bayonet blade from his belt and returned Milo’s grin.

“I’m with you, Magus,” he growled eagerly.

The soldiers out on conscription duty hadn’t made any other stops up to this point, and so only two of the trucks were packed with poor souls. This village was the first of what was planned to be a long night of dragging honest folk from their beds, which left the trucks at the rear empty save for two soldiers left as sentries in each vehicle.

The first two to die never had a chance.

Ambrose was on them like a lion among sheep, his knife flashing left and right. Crouching, he was already moving toward the next truck as Milo stepped forward, and the raptor skull vomited flame over the vehicle. Green flames so pale they seemed woven with molten silver splashed across bed and cab, clinging and warping with terrible fury.

The soldiers watching from the next two trucks sprang from their cabs, rifles in hand, shouting and cursing in confusion. Milo stalked toward them, his will pressing outward to warp their vision of him with the Art. He became a host of wavering splintered silhouettes before the burning vehicle. Blinking in the sudden eye-watering brightness, they raised rifles whose barrels swept toward one phantom that vanished before chasing another. They were so distracted that when Ambrose’s blade punched through their hearts, only the last man noticed that the other three were cooling in the dirt before his gaze emptied.

Two more trucks were set ablaze as cries and shouts sounded from the village, and they watched packs of soldiers racing between the burning buildings to see their handiwork. In one sweep, Milo saw no less than three dozen men emerging sporadically from the few unburnt hovels, what meager pilferings they could find in greedy hands.

Even sorely outnumbered, Milo felt his wrath increase as though it were fuel to the fire inside him.

His nightsighted eyes protesting at looking past the glaring flames, Milo spotted a flicker of movement behind the oncoming soldiers. For one second, he wondered if he’d vastly underestimated the enemy numbers, but then he saw a shadowy mob rushing away from the village. They seemed less like a mass of people than a low, scudding cloud of oily smoke.

“Rihyani,” he said and turned back to the soldiers, who were already ranging out from the village. Their rifles and electric torches were in their hands, but Milo’s befuddling illusion held, and they were unable to focus. Even from this distance, Milo could see fear glistening in eyes that reflected the flaming trucks.

The first few shots whistled into the dark harmlessly, but the sound and impotent fury stoked the rest of the men. Salvos, haphazard and aimed at nothing, tore through the night, while sergeants barked for good order to no effect. One squad of soldiers had even started firing at one of the trucks near the village, riddling the vehicle and the sentries with equal zeal.

Even with the illusion holding, the sheer amount of fire saw shots hissing past Milo and he needed to dart for cover. Spitting curses, he slid behind a low wall that had once marked the edge of the village proper as torch beams swept overhead and few more wild shots zipped by.

“I saw something!” a voice hollered in hoarse Russian over the sounds of men shooting and lever actions working frantically.

“Kill it!” another voice screamed, and the wall a stride or two from Milo sprayed mortar and chipped stone in all directions as the squad opened fire.

In a matter of seconds, the furious onslaught died off as soldiers fumbled for fresh magazines to ram home. Milo smiled wolfishly as he heard their sergeant cursing them for their poor order, and he was still wearing that toothy smile when he sprang up from behind the wall.

“My turn!” he snarled.

Lashes of flame tore across the firing line like huge infernal cats o’ nine tails.

The luckiest caught the brunt of the sorcerous onslaught and were dead before their bodies hit the ground in a shower of cinders and ash. The less fortunate were not immediately slain but had time to scream as the unnatural flames lapped across their bodies. They managed to flail and floundered in the remains of the fortunate dead, but it was a short-lived struggle. In less than ten seconds, every man had succumbed, and Milo was left staring wide-eyed at the devastation he’d wrought.

One furious stroke and ten men lay dead.

“I didn’t even know I could do that,” Milo muttered, and he felt Imrah’s chuckle grate against his mind.

I aim to please, master.

Milo realized he was gawking while more soldiers swept their torches toward the fresh fires. Milo dove behind the wall and scampered away as chunks of stone were punched out around him. Unlike the last batch, these soldiers seemed to be maintaining some semblance of order, their shots coming in overlapping volleys as they advanced in teams of three from cover to cover.

May I recommend using something less eye-catching than witchfire?

Milo swore as he scuttled through a breach in the wall and sprinted through a torrent of shots to leap through a house’s open window. One shot plucked at the tail of his black coat and he felt the heat of another across the back of an outstretched hand, but somehow he landed on the wood floor unpunctured.

“I’m open to suggestions,” Milo gasped as he crawled, winded and cringing, deeper into the house as the squad opened fire. Rounds snapped off plaster walls and whined off hanging pots and