World's First Wizard Complete Series Boxed Set

by Schneider, Aaron D.

  She scooped up the bowl she’d been scrutinizing.

  “You’ll need far more dried pupae,” she said, holding the bowl out to Milo and nodding at a jar on another table. “Two handfuls.”

  “Okay,” Milo said, calling over his shoulder as he went to get the husks, “but you’re saying it won’t have any negative effects? What happens once you finally come off the stuff?”

  Imrah gave the rest of the ingredients another sweep and then a curt nod before answering.

  “Long-term use of any elixir will have side-effects, though nightwatch is mostly cosmetic and behavioral. Nothing serious, and again, that would be with extended use.”

  Milo tried to block out the dry scrape of the spent pupae on his skin as he carefully drew them out and deposited them in the bowl.

  “And as far as when the elixir runs out,” the ghul continued, “that will depend on how long you have been using it. If it has only been a few days, then the fatigue will be intense. If you are pushing a week, you’ll have minutes, maybe seconds before you collapse. If you’ve pushed it further than that, well, just don’t do that.”

  Milo gulped at the implications as he came back with his bowl of expended cocoons, offering them to Imrah for inspection. She waved them over to the table.

  “Good, now start stuffing the pupae into one of those eels,” she said absently as she prowled around the table.

  Milo frowned at the long black shapes floating in a murky glass jar.

  “I still want to know where you got all this,” Milo muttered as he rolled up his sleeves. “It’s not like you had time to gather it.”

  Imrah bared her teeth at him as he removed the glass jar, filling the basement with a rank, fishlike smell.

  “If you don’t manage to foul this up too terribly, I’ll show you,” she teased, then frowned as he plunged his hand into the jar. “Mind the teeth!”

  Milo swore furiously as he yanked his hand clear of the jar with a wriggling eel fixed on the meat of his thumb.

  “These things are alive!” Milo howled as he whipped his hand around, spattering stinking water.

  “Obviously,” the ghul remarked with wry amusement. “Now quit playing with the vermin. We’ve got a lot of work to do.”

  Milo finally managed to pry the needle-toothed jaws from his hand, gripping it behind its blunt head as its black length flopped and dangled. Then, still swearing and cursing the eel to the very progenitor of its kind and the last offspring of its entire species, he began the process of coaxing the ill-tempered fish to eat the pupae. Imrah watched with crinkled eyes as he taunted it into fits of snapping at him that saw cocoons slipping down its gullet. It was a slow, frustrating process, and soon Milo was sweating and so intent on the task he didn’t even have time to swear.

  He’d made it halfway through the bowl when Imrah finally burst out laughing.

  Milo looked up, eel in one hand, bowl of empty pupae in the other, eyes wide.

  “What?” the magus asked, his voice sharp and trembling. “What!”

  Imrah wiped tears from her eyes.

  “I said stuff it, not feed it,” she wheezed, barely able to keep herself from devolving into further chortling. “You kill them first. What do you think the ramrod is for?”

  To illustrate, she pointed at the bronze cylinder on the table, its baroque filigree twinkling mockingly in the light.

  Milo made to argue, but a spluttered curse was all he could manage before turning an accusing eye on the gaping eel.

  “I’m going to try to enjoy this,” he hissed into the cold eyes. “If nothing else because both of you have been enjoying making a fool of me.”

  The eel gave no reply except one more defiant snap of its jaws as Milo set down the bowl and picked up a knife from the table.

  * * *

  The ingredients were finally prepared and placed in their appropriate places within the empty skin, which Imrah had described as the easy part. The swollen skin and series of puncture wounds on Milo’s thumb begged to differ, but either way, it seemed they were ready to proceed with empowering the fetish.

  “The essence to empower the skin will come from this,” she said, holding up a small pouch. “It should have all the power you need to complete the process. You’ll probably need one for each skin-coat you prepare.”

  Milo took the pouch, and the second his fingers closed over it, he heard a soft click and rattle within. Certain he wouldn’t like the answer, he tugged the top open to peer inside. An assortment of tiny bones was within.

  “Birds?” he asked, hating how hopeful he sounded. Somehow, as delicate as bones were, even he struggled to believe that was possible. Animal corpses offered many ingredients and potential alchemical applications, but essence came from one place.

  “Of course not.” Imrah snorted, then seeing the expression curdling his features, broke into a frown. “What’s wrong? Are you embarrassed that you forgot something so basic, or is it something else?”

  Milo stretched the mouth of the pouch wider and scowled at the collection of tiny bones, his skin crawling even as anger rose in his belly. His fingers sifted a few of the bones before settling on a tiny femur, which he raised in front of his face.

  “These are bones, Imrah,” he murmured, not sure if he wanted to fight or vomit. “The bones of a child, an infant!”

  An expression of raw confusion slid across the ghul’s human guise, then her expression hardened.

  “Yes, so?” she asked, her eyes flat.

  “So,” Milo snarled, thrusting the bag toward her, “this was someone’s son or daughter! It’s bad enough that we’re going to be handling god-forsaken bodies, but the bones of children are just fuel?”

  Imrah’s fingers curled and her teeth clacked, but she closed her eyes as she drew in a calming breath. When she opened them, her gaze was steady but softer, and her voice was low and calm.

  “I understand that physical remains mean something to humans,” she said, each word pronounced with measured slowness. “But if you are going to be a necromist, you will have to accept that they are simply raw materials. Yes, that was someone’s daughter, but not anymore, just like this skin.”

  Milo ground his teeth as she spoke. Though he knew it was all in his head, the pouch felt heavier in his palm.

  “That girl died years ago, over a decade if I remember correctly. Her mother and father, if they still live, will have moved on with their lives and probably had more children. Nothing we do to those bones will hurt her, but they can help us greatly.”

  Milo looked at the delicate bones. He tried to tell himself her words made sense in a cool, rational way, but every second he held the pouch, it felt heavier, and his hands felt more soiled.

  He imagined a small grave dug into a hillside.

  Raw materials!

  Milo railed at himself, knowing he was wasting precious time, but he couldn’t shake the image of a man and woman leading their other children to that hillside.

  Just raw materials!

  Despite his internal conflict, the vision progressed as he saw the mother and father kneel beside that small grave, clearing away nature’s weedy grip. They taught their other children their sister’s name and inched closer to healing a family that had been broken.

  Then he thought of their faces when the next time they came and found the little grave plundered.

  Milo closed his eyes, and cold, righteous anger stirred in his chest.

  “How did she die?” he asked, the question coming out before he could stop himself.

  The ghul looked as though she didn’t understand the question. After a moment, she seemed to realize he was waiting for the answer, and she made a frustrated sound in the back of her throat.

  “Will that really help?” Imrah asked, eyeing him like he was a wounded animal. “Will that make any of this easier?”

  Milo swallowed and tightened his fingers around the pouch, wincing at the soft clicks within.

  “It might.” His voice whistled around the
lump in his throat. “It might make all the difference in the world.”

  The last words came out sharper than he’d expected, but as his misting eyes narrowed at Imrah, he knew certain as stone he meant it. Imrah raked her fingers through her stolen hair as though ready to tear the disguise apart in a fit of temper. Her jaw worked for a moment, eyes blazing.

  “It—ugh, fine—she died of some illness or another,” the ghul said at last. “That’s all I know because that was all the merchant told me. The bones of a beloved child pick up a powerful resonance that catches more essence than such a small life would collect.”

  Milo looked at the bones and couldn’t keep himself from wondering what mother would want to know her daughter’s bones had been collected by creeping monsters for dark magic.

  “How do you know the merchant didn’t kill her himself?” Milo asked. “Snatch her up and then kill her to give you the bones?”

  Imrah looked at Milo with narrowed eyes.

  “I don’t know, Milo. How would I be able to tell?” she asked irritably. “Think!”

  Milo wanted to snarl that now wasn’t the time for a review, but the words died in his mouth. He swallowed the rebuke and nodded his understanding.

  “You could sense a difference,” Milo said with a defeated sigh. “Such a violent end would affect the essence. Awakening Moro, section four.”

  Imrah raised her hands in front of her and began to clap slowly. If his hands hadn’t been full, Milo would have snatched up something to throw at her and might have started with the eel jar.

  “So you do read occasionally,” the ghul said, her face twisting into a smug sneer. “Now, just to check that I’m telling the truth, why don’t you feel those bones out and tell me what you find?”

  Milo stared at her, and in silence, he felt the tremble of magical awareness centered around the pouch in his hand. He feared to reach out, not sure if he could bear what was waiting for him. Imrah just stared back, unflinching.

  Milo’s hand trembled, the bones rattling, and he felt the essence pulsing within the pouch. Throb by throb it was closer, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he wondered if he would get to hear the sobs of the child’s mother echoing in his mind.

  “Why can’t we use a soul well?” he asked. “Draw on shades to power the process?”

  “Because shades have too much will of their own,” Imrah explained, rolling her eyes. “These aren’t skin-coats going on you or me, who can control them. If we put a skin-coat on a corpse, even with instructions to stay put and in the form we give it, it’s liable to start changing shape or even crawl away within minutes, certainly within hours.”

  Milo felt his chest tighten, and his eyes roved around him, searching for escape.

  “Milo,” Imrah called as though he were a skittish horse, which was how he felt.

  “What?” he gasped, unable to focus on her as his mind raced.

  “These are the realities of the craft,” she said gently. “There are no other sources of essence besides humans, and the only reliable way to get that essence, untainted, is from their remains. If there was another option I would suggest it, but you remember your reading. This has to be done.”

  With a single heavy breath, Milo shook his head, tied up the pouch, and set it gently on the table.

  “No,” he said, the word quiet but heavy. Staring at the bag a moment longer, he made a promise to himself that he would find a place to bury what remained of the little girl. He would find somewhere the sun would touch every day. She’d spent enough time in the dark.

  Imrah’s nostrils flared and her eyes flashed.

  “Milo, think about it,” she warned. “You are going to throw away a powerful tool just because it makes you uncomfortable. Think of the lives you’ll be saving by preventing this war. Aren’t those worth a little discomfort?”

  The words struck Milo, though not in the way Imrah intended. Moments ago, she’d asked him to recall a section of his reading, and now her words called to mind another passage toward the end of the codex. Part of him trembled even as he snatched up an empty bowl and the knife he’d used to kill that cursed eel.

  “I’m willing to endure more than a little discomfort,” Milo said after placing the knife and bowl down to snag a few pinches of weapon filings and crematory ash.

  “What are you doing?” Imrah asked, her tone approaching a demand.

  “Awakening Moro, section seventeen,” Milo said distractedly as he sprinkled the filings and ash in the bowl. “There’s a reference to further details in an unattached appendix, but I think I understand the basics.”

  Milo spat into the bowl, then drew his focus to a needle point within the container.

  “BURN.”

  A tongue of green flame sprang up from the center of the bowl like an infernal candle.

  “You can’t be serious,” Imrah hissed. “Not only is it forbidden, but it is also incredibly dangerous. Do you even know what you are talking about?”

  Milo retrieved the knife and began to pass the blade through the flames, careful to keep his fingers clear. When the bronze blade began to glow along the edges, he held it up for inspection.

  “Clearly, I do,” Milo said as he watched the burning light pass out of the blade, though he could feel its biting heat. “For once, I did my homework.”

  Imrah stepped toward him.

  “It is forbidden!” she snarled and reached out to grab the knife from him.

  Milo stopped her with a baleful look.

  “Forbidden for a ghul,” he said grimly, stepping over the prepared skin with eyes still locked on his teacher. “But I’m not a ghul.”

  “Milo, please,” Imrah said quickly, watching as the blade drew near his open palm. “Forget rules and traditions; this could kill you, and then what good will it do?”

  Milo didn’t bother to answer as he drew the blade across his hand. The edge of the blade, searing and keen, parted his flesh in one smooth stroke. A sharp, truncated hiss sounded as blood met the hot blade. Without flinching, Milo clenched his lacerated hand, drawing more blood to the welling wound.

  “You’re being a fool!” Imrah shrieked, slamming her fist on the table. “For Iblis’s sake, you’re standing there over what will be a skin-coat you fit on a dead man, you idiot! You probably have more in common with the corpse you’ll be using than some whelp who didn’t have the strength to see her second year. Where’s your outrage for him?”

  Blood had begun to drip from Milo’s wound, and not wasting a drop, he dribbled it across the skin.

  “I’ve got to draw the line somewhere,” he said without looking up, wondering if the heady feeling was conviction or the magic taking hold. “Men, good and bad, die for so many reasons, that’s the way of it. Sometimes it’s a tragedy, sometimes it's a blessing, and sometimes it's necessary. But a child’s death is always a tragedy and never necessary.”

  He felt it as the blood soaked into the prepared hide. A connection was made, like two wires making contact and the current starting to flow.

  “The men we’ll be using died in the service of the Empire. We’ll just be asking them to serve a little longer. Same can’t be said of her.”

  Imrah looked ready to pounce on him in her fury.

  “You’re being so arbitrary, so self-righteous it makes me sick!” Imrah shrilled, scattering bowls and jars to shatter on the floor as she picked up the pouch of tiny bones. “What if the world was burning, the whole damned world, and I told you this right here was the only way to save everyone and everything? What then, Magus?”

  Milo shook his head and looked at his bloody hand. Blood had been ground into the lines in streaks of crimson, but the wound was dry. The skin-coat had drunk its fill and was now ready.

  “If profiting from the death of an innocent is the only way to save the world,” he said slowly, gathering his focus to start the reaction, “then I say, let it burn.”

  22

  An Offering

  Thankfully using his blood, and there
fore his life force, to power the reaction did not prove fatal. Painful, most certainly, but after the first moment of soul-shredding dislocation, Milo was pleased to find he remained alive, and as far as he could tell, whole.

  Meanwhile, the prepared hide was going through a rapid cycle of changes.

  First, the blood bubbled and hissed like it was boiling off the surface, though Milo felt no noticeable change in temperature from the forming skin-coat. No sooner had the vapors risen a few inches from the coat than they were drawn back down across the surface of the hide, where they hovered like fog. Beneath this layer of mystic vapors, the hide seemed to thin, becoming insubstantial. A few seconds later, the entire hide looked like it was made of glass, and Milo could see the table through the hide.

  “Incredible,” Imrah whispered, suddenly at Milo’s shoulder.

  Milo wanted to feel smug, but the rapt look on her face was so intent that he felt a tremble of unease.

  “Did something go wrong?” Milo asked, more concerned about her than his oddly behaving project. “Is it damaged?”

  Imrah shook her head, not answering, then reaching for the accordion file resting against the leg of the table. She drew out the first collection of sheets held together with a paperclip.

  “Here,” she said, shoving the papers into Milo’s hand.

  A photo of a dark and surly-looking fellow with a weak chin was stuck under the paperclip. The papers were the medical records for a soldier in the missing patrols, an unfortunate named Klaus Schuster.

  “So, this is supposed to happen?” Milo said, looking up from the paper and nodding at the glassy hide. “It’s supposed to look like that?”

  Imrah gave an impatient snort, but checked herself, and then bobbed her head in confirmation.

  “Yes, that is exactly what it is supposed to look like. In fact, even though I’ve made dozens of these in my life, I’ve only had this happen a handful of times. The cloudier it is during this stage, the more imperfect it will be on completion.”