World's First Wizard Complete Series Boxed Set

by Schneider, Aaron D.

  “If I do that, Zlydzen could get the Resonator working at full capacity,” Milo said, not bothering to keep the hot edge out of his voice. “He could scoop up thousands before the Germans pulled it together, and that doesn’t take into account what roadblocks the Reich might throw up.”

  “So, it’s for expedience, then?” the fey asked, her narrowed gazed threatening to skewer him. “It has to happen fast, and this is the only way? Even if it costs you your life?”

  “Yes,” Milo said, and he saw a dangerous light flash through Rihyani’s eyes. “I don’t know. Yes, that’s part of it, but I don’t have the words. I’ve got to keep the essence dynamic.”

  Rihyani pursed her lips and Milo felt her will brush his, an intimate caress flesh could only try to imitate.

  Then don’t tell me. She sighed as though resting her head against his soul. Show me.

  So he did.

  He allowed the vision that had overwhelmed him in the presence of the Resonator spill out to her. She opened herself to the experience, letting it wash over her. On a level separate from the mental strain of keeping the blood mobile, he felt her will tremble and eventually push back against the vision he’d unleashed. She’d seen enough; she understood. He sealed the vision like a barkeep turning off the tap on a particularly venomous vintage.

  It took her a moment to compose herself, but he waited, comforted because she didn’t shield herself from him. He felt the raw chaos of her vibrant inhuman emotions rushing past him like unfamiliar winds. When things finally settled, he felt the closeness of her resting against him.

  I suppose for a man, there are few better ways to see it done, she whispered. He could taste the smile on her lips.

  So I’m dead already, am I?

  Rihyani’s will stroked his, as melancholy and sweet as the keening of a violin echoing over a moor.

  Since the day I met you, my love, she breathed on his soul. It is the fate of every son of Adam I’ve ever loved. You are suns born to consume yourself on this cursed earth.

  Milo couldn’t hide the roil of emotions that rose in him at the intimations of her heart, but she didn’t withdraw even as waves of jealousy and shock lashed her.

  I’m older than you can imagine, my love, but my heart, the will of what I am, is still a young lover. I will not love you any less for the parting that will come between us and may love you even more for it. It will break my heart if you spurn me for what I am, but in time, long after you are gone, I will find another to love. Such is my way, and I would have you know it if we go to face the end together. Can you love me still?

  The ache in his heart was real, the wild emotions rampant and fierce, but the answer came up from the depths of him all the same.

  Yes, he replied, then reached out to touch her with both will and flesh.

  She pressed against him, and once again, it seemed that they were made to fit together, every contour melding seamlessly into a glorious whole.

  “Then let’s go and die well, my love.”

  * * *

  The wind was on fire.

  Or at least it seemed that it might kindle at any moment as the heaped bonfires’ flames licked up and out over a plain of leveled buildings. Tongues of fire lapped the falling snowflakes as they fell, a defiant dragon’s breath raised against the descending snowstorm. Milo watched the twists and writhing of the flames and felt a shudder pass through him that had nothing to do with the cold.

  He lowered his gaze, dismissing the old memories as he stared over the wasteland.

  The first of the lights were coming into sight, at first in small fireteams, but then in whole platoons accompanied by vehicles sporting headlamps. Milo smiled as he watched more and more of them come.

  Zlydzen might have been a diabolical schemer, but he was not a creature with military experience, or perhaps he had panicked when Milo escaped. He was using a sledgehammer to swat a fly, and for his trouble, Milo was going to pry that sledgehammer from his hand and use it to smash all his little toys.

  “On your word,” Percy muttered from where he stood a short way out of the firelight. There was a brass-chafed Very pistol in one hand, prepared to signal some enticing light resistance. They couldn’t have the soldiers advancing unopposed and expect someone somewhere not to grow suspicious.

  “A little closer,” Milo muttered as he stepped next to the trough that had been built to hold the ash. The bowl of blood was in his hands, still churning, with little tendrils of steam emerging as it roiled.

  The lights had grown to a wall, a wave of illumination rising out of the cityscape. There were so many.

  “Now,” Milo said firmly, determined to set things in motion before he lost his nerve.

  Percy raised the flare gun and launched a star into the icy wind. The boreal gusts dragged the flare hard to the east, creating a slash of phosphorescent light across the black heavens. As the star became a comet in the howling gale, the sounds of gunfire rose in sharp pops. The deeper, throatier thundercracks of the Gewehr beat out a steady rhythm, while the snapping barks of pistol fire played a wilder tune.

  Before Milo’s eyes, some of the lights winked out, and he held his breath.

  For a moment, the wave of lights slowed, threatening to stall as the foremost points clustered together. Milo’s heart sank as he watched the entire advance grind to a halt, trying to take stock of who was shooting at them from the dark.

  Had he guessed wrong? Had he thwarted himself?

  Then there was a scream like a wildcat insane with rage, and he could make out a silvery flash darting from cover toward a knot of lights. Rifles barked from the huddled points of illumination as men shouted and howled, and then Milo saw the silver streak dart back to where he stood.

  The Gewehr and the pistols barked again, but Rihyani’s wild charge and retreat had been the ticket. Like a vast beast awoken by having its nose pinched, the army of soulless surged forth, some advancing so quickly they had to be bounding over the broken, rubble-strewn ground like hounds on the chase.

  “They’re coming,” Percy said, face pale and eyes wide as he glanced at Milo. “Can you do it? That many of them?”

  Mil stepped to one end of the trough, bowl upraised.

  “We’re about to find out.”

  He tilted the bowl, and dribbles of blood fell on the ash with a hiss like new-forged steel being quenched. Milo moved along the length of the trough, letting the blood slide slowly free of its container. As the bowl lightened, he let go with one hand to take up Imrah’s cane, which was clenched in the crook of his arm. He leaned on the cane like an old man as he shuffled the last steps of the trough, exhausted in body and soul.

  It wasn’t a liter and a half of his blood that had drained him but his very essence, his soul. That, combined with the focus he’d had to exert over the last few hours, had left him exhausted and ready to crumple if not for the energies he’d begun to draw from the cane to fortify himself.

  Quickly, Imrah urged, a note of anxiety in her voice Milo wasn’t sure he’d ever heard before.

  From inside his coat, Milo drew out two vials, and with a trembling hand, tore the wax seals off before drinking them together. The taste of sweet onions combined with a cold that numbed him from the inside out brought a surge of twisted and uncomfortable feelings, but the magus shoved them aside as he felt fresh strength and energy pressing through him.

  “Now comes the hard part,” Milo whispered as he held both his hands over the hissing, roiling pit and let the world of mere physical realities slide off to the side.

  Milo’s arcane sense opened wide, wider than he ever would have dared, and what he saw filled him with horror. With a clarity beyond sight, he perceived the raging beacon he’d created, the likes of which made the blazing bonfire behind him seem like a child’s campfire. Yet for all the furious light his expanded mind perceived, it was only a tiny dot piercing a vast expanse of utter darkness.

  And that darkness was hungry.

  Seething around the point of li
ght, he could feel the attention of a thousand upon a thousand shades gazing hungrily at the beacon he’d lit. Slithering over each other in such numbers that it was impossible to tell where they ended and the void began, they crept forward with long teeth wetted by lamprey tongues.

  They let out a collective rasping snarl no ear could perceive.

  Time to play follow the leader, Milo whispered to the dark.

  You keep teasing them and they’ll rip us both apart, Imrah warned.

  Milo turned and beheld her, no longer the disembodied voice in the cane, but her ghulish figure hunched at his side. Her clawed fingers gripped his hand, and for an instant, he felt a gentle strength in the grasp he’d never known when she was alive.

  Are you ready for this? he asked, knowing it wasn’t just his soul on the line.

  It is a poor penance, she replied, bowing her head. But it is better than I deserve.

  You and me both, he said, and for perhaps the last time, they shared a smile.

  Together, they threw their combined magical might into the beacon, fracturing it into a roiling cloud of burning sparks. The horde of shades moaned and clamored, rushing forward, but the sparks were already racing out.

  Milo’s eyes opened to see that the trough had erupted in a billowing rush of smoke filled with traceries of green lightning and blue fire. The vast cloud rolled out like a poisonous bank of fog to meet the soulless army charging at them.

  There were flashes of unearthly brilliance as the sparks and cinders of magically driven ash fell upon hollowed soldiers, and in an instant, shades plunged into the cavities where men had once lived. First tens, then hundreds, and then thousands of hungry echoes chased the beacons into the empty flesh and there nestled in with relish as they turned stolen eyes upon the world.

  And with each one that did so, Milo felt them pulling, each shade seeking to snap the cords of blood and soul that bound them to him. He bore down with his mind and heart, refusing to let one strand part as they tugged and snarled. It was like thousands of strings had been tied to individual nerves, and now each was pulling at a different angle and intensity, but all with the intent of breaking him or breaking free. Imrah’s strength poured into him, every ounce of her subsumed by him as the struggle grew desperate.

  With a scream that rose with an intensity that made his throat strain and tear, Milo roared his command across all boundaries of existence.

  OBEY

  For a second, it seemed to be too little, too feeble, but he held on, and little by little, the cords went slack. With agonizing slowness that would not let him rest until all surrendered, the shades ceased their struggle.

  Milo, blood trickling from his nose and mouth, saw Zlydzen’s army turn and look at him. Thousands upon thousands of shades, their pale gleams showing in those dead eyes, watched and waited for their master’s command.

  Milo began to smile but paused to cough up blood. Wiping his mouth, he bared red-stained teeth to his new army and leveled a finger in the direction of the Neva River.

  “Let’s get to work.”

  20

  These Allies

  It soon became apparent that not all of the soulless had been swept up in Milo’s incantation as he turned the tide of soldiers back upon itself. The crackle of rifle fire and the scream of men dying bore testament to those who for whatever vagaries of fate had escaped his grasp, but they quickly fell under boot and bayonet. The onslaught was an avalanche in reverse, and within moments it was clear he wouldn’t be able to keep up.

  “Come up here with me,” Rihyani crowed over him as she swept down on a howling gale.

  Milo, his heart thrilling at the idea, was about to spring upward when he heard Percy Astor stumbling over the debris-covered ground. He turned and saw the posh American staggering from a snarl of wire, cursing as he glared at fresh holes in the leg of his trousers. Percy must have felt Milo’s gaze on him, and he returned Milo’s scrutinizing stare, looking abashed.

  “Don’t stop on my account,” he called with a flap of his hand. “I’m not cut from the same rugged, adventurous cloth, but I’ll be along as soon as I’m able.”

  Milo, to his surprise, felt a pang of sympathy for the man, but as he watched the American and felt watched in turn, he began to wonder. What had Percy and not-Ezekiel been sent here for? Milo still didn’t know why they’d been in Georgia, and now here they were again, conveniently present to aid them despite previous hostilities. Could “the enemy of my enemy” truly apply here? And now once more, Percy Astor seemed ready to fade into the background of events as he had in Georgia, quietly departing to see to whatever his real business was?

  “Go ahead, and let me know when you spot the Hiisi,” Milo shouted to Rihyani as he waved her on. “We’ll be joining you at the front shortly.”

  The black bag holding the bones of the Qareen steed hung from Milo’s belt, and with a tug, it was in his hand.

  “No, no, you go ahead,” Percy cried, slowing to a shuffle. “I’m catching my breath, and besides, I prefer not to be at the front of anything.”

  I don’t expect that you do, Milo thought as he ignored Percy and began to undo the bag’s drawstrings.

  You could shoot him now, Imrah said in a frosty mental wheeze. She sounded so weak he felt a flutter of concern quicken his heart.

  Not yet, he replied, though he had to admit the idea had merit. He might be the only check on the abomination he brought with him.

  Milo bid the enchanted remains form as he poured them out, setting bones and dried viscera to dance about.

  “Really, I would prefer to amble along at my own pace,” Percy pressed, beginning to look more nervous than he ought in Milo’s estimation. “There’s no need to bring me into danger, where I’ll be more of a burden than anything.”

  Milo didn’t deign to respond as he watched the unliving construct form.

  Fair enough. Imrah sighed. I suppose you still have to interrogate him to find out how he managed to stuff a corpse like that.

  That hadn’t been the top of Milo’s priority list, but it was in the upper echelons for certain.

  Is that another kind of magic?

  Not really, no. More like ritualized communication, at least from what I understand from what Zlydzen taught. Almost likely courtly protocol involving blood sacrifices.

  Milo supposed he should be relieved, but as the Qareen finished forming and a pale light kindled in its sockets, he felt nothing so sweet as relief.

  At a thought from him, the Qareen knelt before Milo, and he hopped on. With another impulse, it cantered over to Percy, who stood scowling up at Milo.

  “Get on,” Milo instructed as he held out a hand, his other hand holding the cane so the eyes were surreptitiously facing the American.

  Percy’s jaw ground back and forth, but finally, he reached out and took Milo’s offer with a hand that seemed to be missing a few fingers. The grip, even sans fingers, was hard and clear in its intention. This wasn’t over.

  With friends like these, Milo thought as he spurred his mount after his charging army.

  * * *

  The advancing shade-bound soldiers met little resistance as they crossed the city. There were outbreaks of gunfire and even grenades erupting, but whenever one of the bodies was too broken to carry on, the shade simply possessed one of its attackers. As a result, even the worst pockets of resistance did nothing to rob Milo’s forces of their strength as they marched inexorably to the river.

  Mounted on his tireless steed, Milo, with Percy clinging to his back, rode at the head of the loping horde. The Qareen’s hooves clattered over cobbles and hunks of rubble as it galloped through streets that were even more hellish than before. Bullet casings scattered in their wake, some rolling through pools of blood seeping from broken bodies. In a few places, small fires somehow found fuel to sputter and crackle. Flashes of his protean memories from the first night he saw Petrograd burn played in Milo’s head, but he shook them off with a snarl.

  FORWARD

&n
bsp; His command played like a spider’s tune across the thousands of ethereal strands that bound his army to him. The strain of keeping so many shades mastered was more than he’d feared, but having something at which to direct their violent nature kept him one step ahead of losing control. At this point, it was not so much commanding as channeling the hateful animus, and though he felt a brutal, grinding pain behind his eyes, he pressed on.

  They were so close now. At this rate, they would swing wide of the Winter Palace and whatever force remained there and make for the bridges. Once they crossed, Milo could utterly expend his force in destroying the Resonator. Locating and eliminating Zlydzen was secondary, but Milo was almost certain the dwarrow would be with his beloved machine.

  That suspicion was confirmed in the worst possible way when Milo reached the street leading to the bridge Roland had taken to the Resonator’s island.

  The vanguard of his forces, mounted on various vehicles, had begun to cross the bridge, while the bulk of the army on foot formed a packed throng behind the outriders. Small-arms fire from buildings across the river peppered the shade-bound, but flesh wounds were of little concern to the bloodthirsty creatures. Return fire from Milo’s forces was sporadic and unorganized, but he didn’t bother to change that. They needed to cross and get to the machine.

  As the undead horse cantered around the edge of the massed soldiers making their way onto the bridge, Milo stared across the length of the bridge and saw a trio of squarish shapes sidling over to block it. Astride one of the crawling behemoths was a squat figure that could have only been dwarrow.

  “They gave him tanks,” Milo muttered in surprise before a trio of 5.7-centimeter Maxim-Nordenfelt cannons bellowed. The forwardmost vehicles on the bridge came apart in eruptions of broken men and twisted metal. One shot lanced through one truck, only to plow into a car before cratering a section of the bridge. The fractured remains of automobiles and bodies hadn’t even finished falling to the deck and the river below when machine guns began to chatter. Heavy 7.92-millimeter rounds filled the air, perforating the light vehicles and the frontrunners of the forces on foot. The bodies of men crumpled, only to be trampled under the press of shade-bound still clamoring to charge.