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

me go do it, so your precious word can be kept, and we can get out of here.”

Milo felt a tremble of concern as he watched the blade glinting in Ambrose’s hand, but something in the big man’s voice told him to trust. After all, Simon Ambrose didn’t lie.

Despite that, Milo stood fixed in place as he watched Ambrose trudge over and roughly cut Beria’s bonds. The commissar rose and stood staring at Ambrose as the two exchanged words, then Ambrose turned and ambled back to Milo and Rihyani.

“Ready to go?” Ambrose asked.

Rihyani nodded as she rose, while Milo bent down and scooped up his cane.

Not a word, Milo warned Imrah before turning to Ambrose, frowning.

“What did you say to him?”

“Told him not to follow us, or I’d gut-shoot him and break both his legs.” Ambrose shrugged. “Recommended that he stand there counting as high as he could before moving to make sure I didn’t get the wrong idea if I heard him behind us.”

Milo looked past Ambrose at Beria, who stood shivering in the dry fountain, staring at them with terror-stretched eyes.

“That’s it?” Milo asked doubtfully.

Ambrose heaved a sigh and shook his head.

“Fine,” he sputtered. “I also reminded him I was an excellent shot, and I’d love for him to give me an excuse.”

Milo stared at Ambrose for a long moment and then nodded.

“Fine, let’s get moving.”

They gathered their things in short order, deciding to go by foot at least initially unless a patrol in the area spotted them and they came under fire. Carrying Ambrose, they couldn’t fly high enough and would be moving too slowly to effectively avoid such an assault, so they trusted the rough terrain of Georgia to give them the concealment they needed.

They left Beria counting as they jogged past the outskirts of the village and the burned-out trucks.

Milo threw one last look over his shoulder and nearly stumbled as he saw movement at the opposite side of the town. His alarm dissipated when he recognized that the dark shapes all bore sooty faces and weary expressions. The villagers were coming back to what remained of their homes, sweeping around the village perimeter with wary eyes.

As he loped onward, Milo wondered if they’d scrape together what they could before leaving or stay and try to rebuild, but the thought flew from his mind when he heard an ear-piercing wail come from the center of the town where a dry fountain had sat in front of a venerable mosque.

“What was that?” Milo said reflexively as he looked at Ambrose, but something in the pit of his stomach told him.

“Proof that Beria could count higher than I expected.” Ambrose shrugged and kept trudging as another terrified squeal was drowned out by angry, vengeful voices.

23

The Ruckus

Tiflis, a city of architectural heterodoxy, the capital of Georgia since the fifth century, curled and contoured around the green ribbon of the Kurgan River. Like many cities of the northern Near East, its buildings were as varied as the lords and tyrants who had held sway over it in its long existence. Marketplaces and cafes that would have been well-suited to Baghdad abutted against civic buildings fit for cities like Berlin or Paris, neo-classical and solemn. Bubbling up among the sloped streets, the voluptuous style of Orthodox churches and the picturesque Mediterranean structures seemed determined to root the city to its oldest origins, when the world still shook with Rome’s crumbling.

Despite this variety and implied vibrance, everything seemed bleak and barren as the trio overlooked the city from the northern slopes. The sinking sun painted the city crimson, but the garish color could do little to lift it from the oppressive drabness that had settled over every building. From this distance, they could see it was a city occupied, its streets empty and its people huddled inside, awaiting what came next.

Only one place showed signs of life and activity, near the very center of the city. Here fires and red flags shone on a broad plaza as a line of trucks and other vehicles wound through. As they watched, flocks of people were disgorged from the automobiles, reduced to dark accumulations of squirming dots by the dying light and the distance. They milled about until other more determined specks converged on them and shuffled them toward one side of the city square or another.

“Looks like Beria was right,” Ambrose spat as he squinted. “They were very aggressive with recruiting.”

Rihyani shook her head, her eyebrows raised in dread wonder.

“They can’t possibly think to bully all those people into service,” she murmured. “Not with so much of their strength gone northward. It would be like equipping an army that could readily turn on you.”

Ambrose heaved a weary sigh.

“You’d be surprised how much audacious men with guns can get away with.”

“And let’s not forget Stalin isn’t just using intimidation,” Milo said, pressing down on the welling anxiety inside of him. “Zlydzen is providing him with some way to influence their minds, make them fanatics.”

That was exactly what gnawed at Milo as he thought of what they were going to try to accomplish. There were so many down there, almost enough for a brand-new army, and it could very well be that in moments, they’d transform from unwilling conscripts to fearless zealots. The thought made his stomach perform an acrobatic routine he could have done without.

“That makes me wonder,” Ambrose said, his mustache fidgeting. “The soldiers were all more than willing to fight to the death. I mean, I didn’t hear one man call for retreat, but why wasn’t that filth Beria fanaticized?”

They all took a moment to consider the point before Milo finally shrugged.

“Maybe because he was a commissar, not a soldier, and a fairly high-ranking one. Levintry Beria was only out in the field to sate his needs. A fanatical soldier is one thing, but bureaucrats? They’d be getting in each other's way even more than usual.”

Ambrose chuckled, but Rihyani, who also seemed to have taken the question in hand, stared