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

lips, so unlike his calm, sure voice only moments earlier.

“Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” Milo quipped as he came to stand over him.

“No,” Stalin snarled as he fought to roll over and climb to his feet. “It can’t end like this.”

Milo stomped, knocking him back down onto the stage.

“End?” Milo said teasingly as he glared down into watering dark eyes. ‘You’re far too useful alive for this to be over so soon.”

A struggle between indignation and relief writhed in the wounded warlord’s eyes, then they narrowed as they roved across Milo’s face.

“No,” he gasped again, face straining toward Milo’s with eyes beginning to bulge. “Are you a ghost?”

Wary of a deception, Milo straightened, reached inside his coat, and fished out a fetish, a simple-seeming coil of leather he’d prepared in Shatili just for this moment.

BIND

The leather sprang to life, and in seconds, it had wound its way around Stalin, forcing his legs and arms together with sharp tugs of its coils. Though he winced at the constricting movements, hissing as it pulled at his injured leg, Stalin never ceased staring at Milo, his eyes growing wider and wider.

“So, this is it, then,” he murmured, sliding into his native Georgian as he sank back against the stage heavily. “Laid low by the sins of my past.”

A cold, bitter smile slowly crept out from under his mustache.

“I should have known she was lying. Oh, clever little Petrovich.”

Behind him, Milo heard a rending metallic crash, but that sound could never have struck him as hard as the name which passed Stalin’s lips.

“What did you say?” Milo snarled as he reached down and grabbed Stalin by the leather web that ensnared him.

“Did you think I wouldn’t recognize you?” Stalin asked, his face still lit by his wintry smile. “That I wouldn’t see her in your face, your mouth, your eyes?”

Milo’s fingers twisted into the cords until his fingers ached, but the power of speech seemed to escape him.

“Magus!” Ambrose shouted. “Where’s Rihyani? We need to go!”

Turning around from Stalin’s leering grin, Milo saw the big man standing over the crumpled golem, the machine’s hammer in one hand. If his heart hadn’t been doing its best to pummel its way out of his chest, Milo might have laughed at the sight.

“She went after Zlydzen,” he said, finding his voice at last and nodded toward the empty steps of the Parliament building where he’d last seen her. The gates into the courtyard were shattered and hanging off their hinges, and within, he heard the sounds of a violent struggle.

“Go get her,” Ambrose said as he tossed the hammer to one side. “I’ll get him in the Rollsy, and then we need to go. Things are getting wild out there.”

Stealing a glance past the stage, Milo saw what he meant.

The square had become an abattoir.

Milo and Rihyani’s specters were gone, and most of the Russian soldiers seemed to be among the piles of the dead, but that had not stopped the conscripts from tearing into each other with reckless abandon. Brother fought brother and neighbor fought neighbor as the dwarrow’s broken manipulations turned men into mad beasts. In the flurry of blows and screams and blood, it was almost impossible to tell who had been driven mad by the street organ’s broken enchantment and who was fighting for their lives to fend off the frenzied humans next to them.

At the far end of the street, he saw a fresh crowd entering the square, a rabble of scared and angry-looking citizens coming to see what new madness was gripping their city. Milo knew it was only a matter of time before the madness in the square turned its attention on them, or they waded in in some desperate attempt to restore order.

Either way, things were only about to get worse, and they needed to escape before they were inescapably caught up in the storm.

Spitting a curse, Milo spun and dragged Stalin up toward his snarling face.

“We’re not done,” the magus hissed, his pale eyes boring into the man’s dark, defiant gaze. “Not even close to done.”

Milo threw him back down and stalked toward the Parliament building.

Milo moved into the courtyard and was greeted by an odd sight.

Rihyani stood amongst the remains of a fountain, water gurgling up and around her feet from rent pipes as she faced Zlydzen. The dwarrow stood several strides away on dry paving stones. Neither fey nor dwarrow moved, each staring at the other.

Milo felt magical energies trembling in the air, Rihyani’s will swirling about and probing at a hardened presence he could sense in the direction of the squat grotesque. The magical presence of the dwarrow was stolid and intractable but showed no signs of being willing or even able to lash out. The magic present was armor, not a weapon.

“It’s over, Zlydzen,” Milo called as he moved to Rihyani’s side, kicking up little splashes. “Your golems are scrap metal, and your puppet is ready for transport. Give up now, and we can bring you in with some dignity.”

The dwarrow’s glittering black eyes turned toward Milo, and he felt his confidence wither inside of him.

“I think not, little magus,” Zlydzen muttered. “You have Ioseb, who I will remind you I already offered, but as I expressed, I have work that is too vital to spend any more time dallying with you.”

Milo gave a snort and began to prowl forward, not noticing that Rihyani’s expression tightened as he moved past her.

Milo, he heard as her will brushed his. Be careful.

Milo almost lost his stride at the contact but was determined not to let it show.

“Seemed like you spent plenty of time dallying with that curtain.” Milo chuckled as he came to stand a few paces from the dwarrow. “Which was amusing, but it’s not your dancing that I’m particularly interested in.”

A smile that could have curdled milk from a mile off drew Zlydzen’s lips apart.

“What exactly are you interested in, little magus?” the dwarrow asked in a ragged whisper. “How far