Milo certainly hoped that was the case. Though the hellish instruments were dangerous, with proper information, the Germans and their allies could be alerted as to what to be on the lookout for.
“Oh, I heard it was quite the spectacle when you blasted that little curio to pieces,” Roland offered cheerfully as he drew out another cigarette. “Is it true you can hurl hellfire like some sort of demon?”
Milo grimaced as he blew out a jet of acrid smoke and gave Roland a sidelong glance.
“Let’s hope you never find out,” Milo replied curtly. “Now, are you going to answer my question, or was your offer a sham?”
Roland stiffened a little, and Milo saw a hint of danger gleaming in his dark eyes. He didn’t flinch away but instead turned from the window and stared at Roland. Roland resisted the urge to likewise square up, instead shaking his head and turning back to the window.
“The street organ was a crude prototype that Zlydzen has already moved past,” Roland said as he puffed on his cigarette. “Now he works to create something that can reach almost anyone, anywhere in Europe. In the space of a month, we will have the means to end a war in one night that has been fought for twenty years.”
Milo’s stomach twisted. His mind insisted that Roland was being grandiose for effect, but the hammering of his heart told him he was far from certain.
“How—”
The doors to the suite flew open, flattening two of the soulless against the wall as something huge and snarling loped in on all fours. From its cavernous chest came a howl of rage that Milo recognized.
“I’ve waited long enough!” Zlydzen roared as he powered forward. “I TOLD YOU TO KILL HIM!”
16
These Schemes
Zlydzen was a train of meat and bone hurtling toward Milo.
Roland sprang in front of him, arms spread protectively to either side.
Milo’s hand plunged into his pocket, fingers scooping up ash, but before he drew it out, the dwarrow skidded to a halt.
Muscles wider than Milo’s chest stood out on each shoulder, twitching with barely restrained rage. The floorboards groaned under huge fists that ground against the wood so that it began to crack and splinter.
“Move,” Zlydzen growled. Each quivering breath hissed between his clenched, snarling jaws.
Roland straightened a little and met the monster’s eyes without so much as a shudder.
“No,” he said, jaw set and eyes fixed. “We are doing this my way.”
A low warning growl erupted from inside the dwarrow’s chest, and one fist unclenched to reach out and settle with slow malevolence on Roland’s shoulder. The gnarled fingers splayed across his entire broad back, while the hooked thumb stabbed into his sternum. Milo didn’t doubt the dwarrow had the strength to flatten Roland’s chest with one sharp squeeze, and he also didn’t doubt that Roland knew that.
“I am not going to ask again,” the dwarrow hissed, spittle flying out between his teeth. “Move.”
Roland eyed the huge hand as though it were no more threatening than the sputum flecking the front of his suit.
“We had a deal, Zlydzen,” he said, his voice calm, almost bored, as he returned the dwarrow’s burning glare. “The objective and mechanisms are yours, but the operation is mine. This falls squarely under my purview.”
The hand's fingers began to tighten, and Roland’s not inconsiderable strength was no use against the crushing pressure. His breath became a labored gasp, and there was a series of low pops as bones shifted beneath the titanic grip. Milo’s fingers curled around the ash and his focus was narrowing when Roland spoke his words clearly despite the wheeze and rattle in his voice.
“Go ahead,” Roland said, sounding as though he didn’t care. “Let’s hope that those Reich bastards don’t mind negotiating with a deformed dwarf.”
Zlydzen’s arm quivered, and Roland’s legs buckled so he sank to his knees. Another second and Milo would launch his desperate attack, letting the chips fall where they may. It wasn’t much of a chance, but he’d be damned before he stood there while the deranged dwarrow ripped him and Roland to pieces.
But Zlydzen’s grip slackened and then released Roland, who fell forward, barely catching himself on his hands. The dwarrow bellowed and swatted the chair Milo had been sitting in, sending it bouncing across the floor to smash through the window by the bed.
Spit slinging from his curled lips, Zlydzen swung his gaze to Milo and began to trace one crooked finger over the layered scars on his face.
“I haven’t forgotten these,” he growled deep in his expanded chest. “Cut whatever deal you want with your fellow vermin, but I haven’t forgotten.”
Milo stared back, one hand in his pocket, but with a half-smile hitching up one side of his mouth, he let the ash slide back down. He looked the fuming dwarrow up and down as he surreptitiously hid his ash-covered hand with arms crossed over his chest.
“I haven’t forgotten either,” Milo drawled. “I mean, how could I? It’s not every day you get to see a coward scuttle away missing half his face.”
Zlydzen’s fists rose and then smashed down on either side of where Milo and Roland stood, while his saliva-streaked beard flapped as he roared and bellowed in their faces.
When neither quivered or cringed, the dwarrow stood trembling for a moment, then with a nauseating slurp and crunch of distending flesh and bone, Zlydzen had returned to his shrunken form. He watched as Roland climbed to his feet and then spoke in the squeaky rasp of his reduced form. It set Milo’s teeth on edge, though he refused to show it.
“Tread carefully, Roland,” Zlydzen warbled as he began to waddle back the way he’d come. “I am a practical creature, but even I cannot be relied upon to always be so reasonable.”
Roland straightened to his full height and cleared his throat.
“I’m glad to see our agreement still stands,” he said, only a hint of a rasp remaining in his voice. “I appreciate your trust in this matter.”
Zlydzen paused but did not turn around. For half a heartbeat, Milo thought he would transform back and continue what he’d started, but to his relief, the mossy head only wagged from side to side as he exited. Roland and Milo watched him amble out of the room, their silent and hateful stares following the dwarrow until he was out of sight.
“You two,” Roland called to the two soulless standing at the end of the room before pointing to the two collapsed behind the doors. “Take those two downstairs to the clinic and have them looked at. Assuming they aren’t dead.”
The soulless bobbed their heads dutifully and sprang to the task.
A minute later, Milo and Roland were alone in the suite. The room was markedly cooler as cold air poured in from the smashed window. After a few more eternal moments of not looking at each other, their breath began to frost in front of them.
Milo shivered and spat a curse before turning to look at Roland squarely.
“Thank you,” he said, the two words seeming to require a herculean effort. “If you hadn’t stepped in, I’d be dead right now.”
Roland smiled and then shrugged, his arm beginning to rise as he stepped toward Milo. It was the same movement he’d made all those thousands of times he’d comforted Milo, settling an arm over his shoulder. Milo didn’t recoil, but something in his face, the barest curdling of his expression, stopped Roland in his tracks. A wounded look cracked his features for an instant, but he recovered as he retreated a step. The upraised arm swept to the broken window in a frustrated gesture.
“I’ll have to have that boarded up before this room is habitable again,” he grumbled and pointed out across the cityscape. “Well, if we are going to be cold, we might as well let you see exactly what I want you to be part of.”
Without pausing to see Milo’s reaction, he strode over to a trunk at the foot of his bed. After some tossed clothes and a little muffled profanity, he drew out two long fur coats, one dark marten and the other smoky-pelted Russian lynx, and advanced on Milo holding both of the
m.
“Take your pick,” Roland said.
They were fine workmanship, probably worth more than anything Milo had ever owned in his life. Shrugging, he took the darker coat and drew it on, thankful for the insulation.
“Good choice. It looks good on you,” Roland said, then seemed to regret having spoken, his cheeks flushing. Milo looked away, embarrassed, mostly because he couldn’t remember Roland blushing about anything before.
Unsure of what to do, he moved to the window and looked out as Roland donned his coat.
“Not to repay what you did with disrespect,” Milo began as his eyes followed a truck in the square that was moving to the gates. “But I want you to understand I’m not going to help you with whatever…”
Milo’s voice trailed off as he felt a familiar intimate presence brush his will.
Can you hold out until tonight? Rihyani whispered in his mind.
Milo fought the urge to look around. She had to be close to communicate like this, but she would also be veiled by the Art. Acting oddly would alert Roland and do him no good.
“Er, whatever you are planning.” Milo coughed and made a little show of blowing on his hands to warm them.
I’ll manage, he replied. What’s the plan?
“All I ask is that you come with open eyes and an open mind,” Roland said, moving to stand with him at the broken window. “Now, shall we go, or are you going to keep considering an ill-advised leap to freedom?”
You stay alive and be ready to run, Rihyani replied, her will sliding slowly away from him. We found help. We’ll come tonight.
Then she was gone, and Milo had to stifle a lonesome sigh.
“Milo?” Roland said softly, looking askance at the magus.
He forced a smile onto his face, turned from the window, and nodded at the door.
“I suppose after you saving my life, I can manage at least that,” he lied. “Lead on.”
“The street organ wasn’t efficient enough,” Roland explained as they rolled down the broken streets in an armored Rolls-Royce.
It wasn’t the Rollsy, but rather a “donation,” as Roland called it, from one of the White factions that had been absorbed by Roland’s forces. It seemed that the Whites received support from the British in the forms of arms and materiel, so Roland could appropriate such a vehicle as a personal transport whenever he liked.
“Too easily disrupted, you see,” Roland continued as they turned down a street that put them near the edge of the Neva river. “Which it sounds like you proved when you broke up Stalin’s little soiree. No, we needed something that would have effects across battlefields and reach populations.”
A snarl came to Milo’s lips at the thought, and he was thankful that the noise of the engine hid his revulsion. He was going to have to work harder than he’d expected to stay safe until evening.
“So Zlydzen began experimenting with radio,” Roland explained. “Now, it wasn’t as easy as playing a magical song over the radio. No, Zlydzen made it clear that it wasn’t the music or even the actual sound as much as the psychic resonance that allowed the machine to manipulate the minds of others. So he needed a means to produce psychic resonance, one for the battlefield and the other for civilian targets much further out.”
Hearing the words “civilian targets” tested Milo’s stomach so much he turned to the armored window to hide his disgust.
The Neva River was a gray ribbon, still obstructed in spots where the wreckage of buildings and vehicles jutted into the river, creating snarled strands of refuse. Speckling the gray, turgid waters eddying around these spots were smaller collections of refuse. When he pressed against the slotted window of the armored vehicle, Milo could see that several of these collections included bobbing bodies.
“Were the bodies down there part of the experiments?” Milo asked, his mouth suddenly tasting like the ash which still sat in his pocket. “Or did you add them for decor?”
Roland spared a glance at the Neva and shook his head as though dismissing the sight before it could even register.
“Not directly,” he said, trying to sound as eager as before but failing. “The battlefield application is, as you might expect, messier. Zlydzen is still fine-tuning it, but there have been errors, and errors make bodies. Simple as that.”
Milo decided the window offered no relief from his growing nausea, so he stared at the floor. Roland thankfully lapsed into silence, leaving Milo in peace.
After a few minutes, there was a dull thump-thump as the road under them changed. Milo saw they were crossing the Neva, heading for an island cradled in the arms of the river. Looming from the center of the island was a strange cyclopean structure, its dimensions and proportions reminiscent of ancient temples in antique lands. From its roofs and spires, dozens or maybe hundreds of metallic antennae extended. As they rolled across the bridge, skirting the scorched remnants of barricades and overturned hulks, Milo saw they weren’t antennae but the metallic branches he had seen being forged in front of the palace.
His mouth went dry as they drew closer to the bristling monument. In Milo’s mind, it seemed like some shelled parasite with its head burrowed in the flesh of the earth until it rose, swollen to bursting. With a surge of righteous hate, Milo wanted the thing destroyed. He didn’t need the abomination explained, but Roland, his eyes shining with pride, seemed determined to share it.
“The Resonator is quite the sight, isn’t she?” He chuckled and glanced at Milo, who had barely enough time to contort his face enough to hide his true feelings. “We’ve only turned her on a few times, but you’ve already seen her handiwork.”
Milo stared blankly at him for a second and then remembered the barren streets in front of the train station and a dark hotel bar.
“Gzhatsk,” Milo muttered. His words were barely audible over the engine, but Roland nodded all the same.
“Yes, one of our first successes,” Roland said, beaming. “Nearly eight hundred kilometers away, and at a quarter of our signal's potency, we had the entire town under our sway in less than a week. At a little over half-power, we could target Berlin, and at full strength, Paris or even London is not out of reach.”
They’d left the bridge and begun to prowl around the open space, which must have been a park before it became the birthplace of a doomsday monstrosity. Up close, Milo could see that what had once looked like a single massive structure was more like a central infestation from which had sprung radiating protrusions of metallic corruption. The bulky core of the horrific edifice had been built with whatever was at hand, its exterior riveted together from scored and rusting hunks of scrap. The spired colonies radiating from the central pod were of fresher and more purposefully crafted materials.
Milo wasn’t sure he could speak without betraying his utter horror, but somehow he forced the words out of his mouth.
“Why would the Reich be helping you with all this?” Milo asked, tearing his eyes away from the Armageddon spectacle. “I mean, do they not understand, or do you have something over them that they’d channel these kinds of resources your way?”
Roland swung the car around for another pass by the Resonator, a toothy grin spreading across his face. Milo recognized the look from the night he’d shared the news of the great weapons heist that was going to set them free.
“A little bit of both and more besides,” Roland said and winked as he leaned into the accelerator. “They’ve fully bought into their own ‘superior’ nonsense. We have them convinced it only works on the brains of subhumans. The fact that we managed to covertly enslave some of their members and pump them for information has also ensured that they understand failure to cooperate could leave them exposed. They are convinced this is an attempt to restore the Russian Empire and will continue to assist if we guarantee to turn it upon their enemies on the Western Front.”
It seemed a fool's bargain, but Milo imagined the likes of the Reich were the kind of arrogant, vicious fools who would go along with it. He also imagined they had plan
s to betray Roland and Zlydzen at the first opportunity.
Monstrous bullies of their caliber suffered no rivals if they didn’t have to.
“I’m sure they plan to try and take it by force as soon as they think they can work it,” Roland said as though reading Milo’s mind. “But by the time they learn that’s impossible, they’ll be dancing to our tune.”
Milo nodded and sank back into his seat, his heart thundering in his ears.
This was much bigger and much worse than anything he could have dreamed of. His head swirled with images of entire cities shuffling out of their homes, joining a stream of soulless marching eastward to answer the call of their masters. An entire continent, every man, woman, and child hollowed out to accept the psychic strings of a hopeless living marionette.
Milo held his head in his hands and stared at the floorboards.
His soul scrambling against the abyssal despair settling over him, Milo affixed his mind on a question emerging from what Roland had said.
“Why would it be impossible?” he asked, looking up to see Roland staring at him with obvious concern. “I mean, why couldn’t they figure it out?”
Roland reached out and squeezed Milo’s shoulder, and it took everything in him not to squirm away.
“Well, because it’s magic, obviously,” Roland said with another wink as he looked appraisingly at Milo. “And that’s where you come in, little brother. But for now, you don’t look so good. A little food and some sleep are called for, I think.”
“How about a lot of food?” Milo asked with a weak smile.
“I think we can manage that.” Roland laughed and gunned the engine as he swung back to the bridge that would take them off that wretched island.
17
These Ashes
Wizardborn (World's First Wizard Book 3) Page 19
