World's First Wizard Complete Series Boxed Set

by Schneider, Aaron D.

  The si’lat sank to the street, inert sand to be blown around by the chill winds of Petrograd.

  Milo’s blackcoat hung about him once more, nothing more than a piece of cloth, its pockets filled with the dust of that which once filled its extra-dimensional pockets.

  The magus sank to the ground and retched, then raised his head at the sound of Zlydzen’s grating cackle.

  “Behold the mighty magus, bright hope of humanity,” the dwarrow squawked triumphantly as he turned to the gaping Hiisi. “See with what poise and power he claims his victory.”

  Milo spat out a curse along with more bile, which made the shrunken monster titter all the louder.

  “So genteel, too.” Zlydzen snorted, his eyes gleaming with delight.

  “My brothers-in-arms,” the dwarrow said with a raised voice. “I hope this renews your faith in our cause. True, the Resonator has been damaged beyond use by this fool and his pawns, but there’s no reason we cannot build again. Everything lies within my notes for an even grander design and one less dependent.”

  The incredulous looks of the Hiisi obviously chafed him.

  “Yes, the Guardians have faced a setback, but our greatest enemy lies at your feet, doesn’t he?”

  Zlydzen turned back to Milo and gave a disdainful flick of his overlarge hand.

  “Devour him if you like, but let us quit this place. We have so much work to do.”

  Zlydzen gave one last sneering look at Milo and turned his back.

  “These humans won’t exterminate themselves.”

  The dwarrow pitched forward, his head coming apart in a spray of copper blood.

  The cranial explosion occurred as the Gewehr’s throaty roar echoed through the streets of Petrograd.

  Ambrose lowered the rifle from his shoulder and spat into the snow.

  “Exterminate this, Armageddon that,” Ambrose muttered. “Why can’t we murder each other without all the delusions of grandeur?”

  Rihyani was at Milo’s side as soon as the dwarrow’s body hit the street, drawing him to his feet. Milo felt as though every bone in his body was broken, and he leaned without shame or pretense on her shoulder.

  Despite his fatigue, he felt the tension in her svelte form, and he saw that the hand not holding him was splayed, talons exposed. His eyes traveled up to her face, and he saw her fangs bared as her dark eyes swept left to right and back again. He followed her gaze and saw the Hiisi leaning in hungrily.

  “Thank you for removing that little fool.” Czernoboch snorted, his eyes settling on Rihyani. “Things were growing stale with him anyway.”

  “Very much appreciated, yes,” the serpentine creature warbled in her watery voice. “But now that all that’s settled, we still have to decide what to do with you.”

  “Couldn’t say you owe us one and leave it at that?” Ambrose grunted as he raised his rifle back to his shoulder.

  The Hiisi hissed as they leaned forward, teeth dripping.

  “Now, where’s the fun in that?” rumbled Tsar’Vodyanoy.

  The numbness of Zlydzen’s attack was beginning to dissipate, but Milo knew that by the time he recovered, it would be too late. He’d be dead or very much wishing he was. Looking at the gaping maw of Tsar’Vodyanoy, he thought about the skeletons formerly moldering in the beast’s vast stomach.

  It was almost hilarious that he’d emptied the creature’s belly, only to be one of those about to fill it.

  Ambrose shrugged and looked at Milo and Rihyani.

  “Been a pleasure,” he said with a warm smile, then took aim.

  “GET DOWN!” roared a voice so strong and clear it demanded to be obeyed.

  Reflexively Milo and Ambrose dropped, Rihyani’s inhuman agility allowing her to make up the difference. It was just as well since the world erupted with the crackling fire of over a hundred rifles and the chattering thunder of several machine guns. The air over the trio’s head was infested with hissing metal that ripped through it at lacerating speed.

  The Hiisi, ancient and evil creatures, their very skin worked with fell charms, were not easily harmed, but the sheer volume of firepower that poured on them began to tell instantly. The smaller of their number suffered the worst, shrieking and yowling as they sought to vanish into the shadows. The larger ones, kings and queens among their godlike kindred, took a few abortive steps at the three cowering on the ground, but each Hiisi that fled meant the fury of the manmade storm focused on those that remained. Less than thirty seconds later, the largest of the monsters decided to beat a retreat.

  “One day,” Tsar’Vodyanoy roared. It was the last creature to vanish, heaving its bulk in a ponderous dive into the Neva.

  The chiming music of shell casings striking wet cement had ceased echoing when Milo, Ambrose, and Rihyani raised their heads and beheld their rescuers.

  Captain Lokkemand stood at the foot of the bridge, black coat whipping around him, arms clasped behind his back. Were he not surrounded by an entire company of soldiers, he might have seemed like a thoughtful man taking in the scenery.

  “SECURE FORWARD POSITION,” he pronounced in that same indefatigable bellow, and after a chorus of acknowledgment from his junior officers, the soldiers rushed to obey.

  Milo and his compatriots climbed unsteadily to their feet, hardly daring to believe what they saw as soldiers crossed the bridge and filed past them.

  Lokkemand approached them at a far more leisurely pace, hands still clasped behind him. He looked around languidly, seeming like a man at complete ease despite his men having to unleash hell on a host of monsters only moments ago.

  “I could see you had the situation well in hand,” the captain remarked dryly, then nodded. “Still, I didn’t want the men to feel they came all the way here for nothing. Sorry if that stole the show a bit. I know how you three like to be stupidly heroic.”

  Milo and Ambrose exchanged looks, and Rihyani, seeing their faces, could only roll her eyes.

  “Simon,” Milo said with a wry grin, “I do believe the captain called us heroes.”

  Simon Ambrose grunted and nodded sagely.

  “About damned time.”

  22

  These Pieces

  Milo was back in Berlin and within the general staff building, sitting at a table, staring at General Erich Ludendorff with sweat threatening to pool where he sat.

  “My apologies,” Colonel Jorge muttered as he crept from the door to the table, an office folder in hand. “I wasn’t informed this meeting had been moved up to today until thirty minutes ago.”

  Ludendorff made a disgruntled noise in the back of his fleshy throat, the sound malignant with tumorous warbles.

  “Sit down, Sebastian,” the old man grunted impatiently, then coughed into a sodden handkerchief. When the cloth came away, there was a smudge of blood clinging to the general’s lip.

  Jorge’s hand gripped the back of the chair next to Milo, fingers clamped tight for support, but he did not sit down.

  “I’m known at this point for arriving when I will,” the colonel continued as though Ludendorff hadn’t spoken. “But this is not one of those cases. Rather, it seems as though someone was once again trying to hold official yet confidential proceedings concerning one of my subordinates without me being present.”

  A small man with a hatchet of a face and round spectacles spoke up in the sort of officious nasal voice that begged for the speaker to be punched squarely in the nose.

  “The general is under no obligation to—”

  “Oh, shut up, Heinrich!” Ludendorff snarled thickly before turning a baleful eye on Jorge. “Sit down, Jorge, for God’s sake.”

  Jorge shuffled into his seat, giving Milo a surreptitious wink.

  With the colonel by his side, he realized the only ones missing were Karl Mayr and his cronies. Milo allowed himself a grim smile at the realization, even though he was quite certain that was the reason he was here. The murder of superior officers could not be condoned, no matter how much they deserved it.

>   “I suppose you both think quite highly of yourselves, hmmm?” the general remarked acidly. “Perhaps you think your efforts deserve some sort of medal?”

  Milo stared back blankly, unsure of what the old man was talking about. He’d come to this meeting hoping to avoid a firing squad, not to have a bauble pinned to his chest.

  “I’ve already received more than my fair share of such things,” Jorge said, waving the suggestion away as though it was on a dish in front of him. “Though I can’t speak for Volkohne. Perhaps he would find the novelty of the experience worthwhile, though I must tell you, my boy, it grows tedious very quickly.”

  Jorge gave Milo another wink and turned his knowing smile on the general, who continued to watch them both with blatant irritation. Milo felt as though they were sharing some joke he had not been let in on.

  “I’m afraid the magus will have to wait for another day to receive his commendations,” Ludendorff remarked dryly, shuffling a few pieces of paper in front of him. “For obvious reasons, we would like to keep this whole business as quiet as possible. With peace talks underway, the last thing we need is the truth getting out and spoiling everything.”

  “We certainly wouldn’t want that,” Jorge agreed, nodding sagely.

  Milo looked from the colonel to the general and back, gripping the table as though the floor might fall out from underneath him. There was a rushing noise in his ears, and something that was not exhilaration or terror but both at the same time seized him.

  Peace talks?

  Ludendorff read Milo’s face at a glance, and something that might have been pity raced across the old man’s features.

  “It seems your man was not aware of the recent developments.”

  Jorge nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on the general.

  “What else could be expected when he has been sequestered in Spandau this past month? He could hardly be expected to be aware of the situation when his treatment has been that of a prisoner of war rather than the savior of our Empire.”

  Ludendorff shifted in his seat at the final proclamation, looking almost as uncomfortable as Milo felt.

  “Fine.” The old man grunted, and his mouth puckered as though expecting something uncomfortably sour. With a sigh, he turned to look at Milo squarely and began in a tone that left little doubt he wanted this to be over as quickly as possible.

  “It seems that word reached the Americans of all people that there was some experimental weapons testing being conducted in Russian territory. When the former Russian warlords and their forces disappeared, notice was taken. Then Captain Lokkemand of Nicht-KAT mobilized his forces into Russian lands. Word made its way around the circles of military intelligence, and before long, the French reached out, willing to talk peace.”

  “Which was just as well,” Jorge put in when Ludendorff paused. “One determined offensive and the entire Western Front would have rolled up like a rug.”

  The news was too much for Milo’s mind to digest. He slumped in his chair, raising a hand to rub his aching head. The war couldn’t be over, could it?

  “Regardless,” Ludendorff rumbled, drawing Milo’s attention back to the fore, “we would like to keep the knowledge of the ‘experimental weapon’ to ourselves, lest the entire world feel the need to throw itself off another cliff.”

  Milo cleared his throat, and every eye in the room turned to him.

  For a second, he froze.

  He understood the power of lies, their allure and sweet promises, and with so much at stake, he couldn’t fault men like General Ludendorff and Colonel Jorge for seizing the opportunity for peace. But could a premise as hollow as this tremendous lie support something as monumental as the end of the war? And what would happen when it all came crashing down again?

  “I understand that an end to the war would be best for the Empire,” Milo began, picking his words very carefully. A firing squad might still be in his future if he didn’t tread lightly.

  “But what is going to happen when everyone discovers that you don’t have the weapon because I destroyed it?”

  Ludendorff stared at Milo for a moment, then blinked several times before turning to Jorge.

  “Sebastian, see to your man,” he ordered before a fit of coughing broke up his words.

  Milo looked at Jorge, doing his best to hide the violent twisting of his stomach. Was even that too much?

  “Milo, you didn’t destroy the weapon,” Jorge said softly, one hand settling on the magus’ shoulder. “You are the weapon.”

  * * *

  “To the experimental weapon!” Ambrose cheered before throwing back another stein of lager. “May the fear of him forever keep the peace.”

  Milo didn’t return the toast. He looked out over the Alster river and watched the snowfall.

  Jorge had arranged for Milo’s and Ambrose’s release from the Spandau prisoner of war camp and sent them to the Wellingsbüttel Manor, a fine estate north of Hamburg. Jorge had explained that the owners of the estate had fallen on hard times during the war and had been forced to sell it for pennies to the German Army, which used it as a recovery hospital for officers injured on the Western Front. As the war ground to a stalemate and officer casualties were reduced, the manor had been reduced to a skeleton staff, and then recently to a small family to keep the house and tend the grounds. Now that the war was coming to an end, the German Army was soon to auction the place off as it went about preparing for the next war.

  As a result, Milo and Ambrose had the run of the manor, eating, drinking, and smoking in expansive dining halls or sitting in solariums like the one they were in now that overlooked the Alster river. A few days after their arrival, Rihyani rejoined them, and after a few nights of pure revelry, she’d decided now was the time to tell him what she’d been about since Petrograd.

  “I couldn’t find it,” she’d whispered to him between Ambrose’s raucous toasts. “I couldn’t find a scrap of the notes, and Astor’s trail went cold almost as soon as I found it.”

  Her breath smelled of apples and her lips looked even sweeter, but for all that, Milo could barely stir himself to take her hand.

  “It’s all right,” he said, squeezing it softly. “It’s going to be all right.”

  He felt her dark eyes staring at the side of his face, but he kept watching the snowfall. It had to be getting close to Christmas, didn’t it? Perhaps he’d go ask the housekeeper to find something to decorate the manor, something festive for the season. It would give him and Ambrose something to do besides drink and stuff their faces.

  Why won’t you look at me? Rihyani asked. Are you angry with me, or is it something else?

  No, I’m not angry, Milo assured her. I don’t want you to see how afraid I am.

  Rihyani’s hand brushed his cheek, but Milo still refused to look away from the snow.

  “You know, I heard somefin’,” Ambrose slurred as he staggered over to the keg to refill his stein. “Heard it when you were talkin’ to Jorge on that new contraption they had wired up in the hall. What did they call it again, Magus?”

  “A telephone,” Milo said without bothering to look up.

  “Telephone,” Ambrose intoned as though the word was the start of an incantation. “As much magic as anything our boy can do, eh, mon chéri?”

  Hardly, Rihyani whispered and leaned her head against Milo’s shoulder.

  “You were saying you heard something, Simon,” she cooed. “Don’t be such a tease and tell me already.”

  Ambrose turned from the keg and wove his way back to his seat, fighting a fit of giggles as he did.

  “I heard you talking about the Reich. Sounds like Jorge, the wily ol’ cat, has been usin’ ‘is time to chase those bastards down. Isn’t that what I heard you two talkin’ about?”

  Milo nodded absently and felt Rihyani nudge him with her elbow. With a grunt, he craned his neck to look over her head at Ambrose as he cleared his throat.

  “Yes,” Milo said, trying and failing to sound as exuberant as Ambrose
looked. “It seems that after Mayr reached Berlin, the rest of the rodents got the hint and went into hiding. Resignations, retirements, and plain disappearances happened very suddenly across several branches of the Empire’s military and governmental offices.”

  “Suppose havin’ your boss sent back in a box will do that.” Ambrose chuckled into his beer. “Didn’t sound like Jorge was goin’ to let us in on the fun, was he?”

  Milo shook his head, striking his best frown for Ambrose’s drunken benefit, the look coming much more naturally to him.

  “Not at the moment,” the wizard said. “But I imagine by New Year, he might have something to throw our way in the matter of ‘cleaning house.’ At least, he intimated as much when we talked.”

  Ambrose drained the stein, belched, and sank a little deeper into his chair. As a Nephilim, it took an ungodly amount of alcohol to get him drunk, but like any mortal, he was prone to sudden collapse when his limit had been reached.

  “I sure would’ve liked to roast some o’ those pricks wi’ my chestnuts,” he muttered, his eyelids fluttering as the stein slid from his hand to clang on the floor. “But I suppose there’s no finer way to start the new year.”

  “A year of peace,” Rihyani said, watching Milo from where she rested her head on his shoulder.

  “I’ll drink to that.” Ambrose yawned and sank a little lower in his chair. A moment later, content but bellowing snores resounded as his mammoth chest rose and fell rhythmically.

  On a whim, Milo’s fingers found the handle of his untouched stein. Smiling at his slumbering friend, he raised it.

  “I’ll drink to that too,” he said, and without too much trouble, drained the stein in one go.

  Rihyani sat up and watched him for a moment, golden pupils dancing in the light of the hearth’s fire.

  “You don’t seem so afraid to me,” she said softly, leaning forward so her lips brushed his cheek. “Or are you getting better at hiding it?”

  Milo chuckled and, borrowing a little of the strength in the cane resting against his knee, he swept her up in his arms and drew her into his lap.