Milo nodded once more and turned back to Imrah.
“All right,” he said, drawing a centering breath. “Let’s do this.”
21
The Fires
“I’m never going to get used to this!” Ambrose groaned as he tightened his grip on Milo’s and Rihyani’s outstretched forearms despite the straps which suspended him between them. Despite his most desperate hopes, Rihyani had stated she didn’t possess the potency of the marquis to carry the Rollsy, and they’d had to make do with a cobbled-together harness.
Ambrose’s complaints had been renewed every few minutes since they’d left Shatili.
Milo wanted to join in but feared if he was distracted for a moment, his first real experience wind riding would end very badly. Instead, his watering eyes remained fixed on the horizon, and his will pressed outward like a vast sail.
The binding of Imrah to his cane and preparing a little surprise for the inevitable communist occupation had taken days, so when they made ready to leave Shatili fortress, things were rushed. He’d received a crash course from Rihyani on the basics of wind riding, which seemed to be about willing the very air around him to believe he was light enough to be borne on a cushion of it. As with most things having to do with the Art, it was a simple, intuitive thing to accomplish the basics, even though it seemed impossible from a rational perspective that he had to diligently remind himself to not think about lest everything come undone and he plummeted to his death.
Despite his basic proficiency, Milo recognized quickly that he was far from the sort of easy mastery Rihyani displayed. Even now sailing along beside her, he could tell most of their forward movement was due to her dragging both humans along. Milo may have been carried by the currents of directed air, but they were not in a hurry to get him where he needed to go, and he guessed on his own skill, he would be lucky to do more than float along like a rather turgid balloon. He also found he struggled to maintain a steady altitude, and more than once, he found himself incredibly thankful that he was connected through Ambrose to her since he might have sailed heavenward and lost his nerve.
A meander upward followed by a sudden and final descent seemed a rather poor way to end his first attempt at flight.
They’d set off in the evening in hopes of avoiding being spotted by Stalin’s forces, and also not trusting that the full week of amnesty would last, given the message they’d sent. Thankfully, the darkness didn’t seem to bother Ambrose or Rihyani, and Milo had taken a dose of nightsight before they’d left, so navigation over the night-blackened countryside wasn’t too much trouble.
The mountainous land rolled by beneath them, scattered homesteads and farms with cheery, fire-brightened windows housing those blissfully ignorant of their passing. War and bloodshed were once more about to descend on a country that had known much in its long history, but the small homes built on hillsides or in valleys still housed families gathering to break bread. They seemed like tiny bastions to Milo, each declaring a silent, enduring defiance to the darkness. Milo wasn’t certain the defiance was warranted, especially now in a world filled with monsters and demons, but if he could will himself to fly, he supposed he could will himself to believe that maybe some of those little holdouts of honest people enjoying simple pleasures could outlast what was to come.
They sailed over Roshka, a village in a river-gouged valley, and righted their direction for a straight run south. There were no major roads through this part of the country, the closest being rough tracks made by horses or shepherded flocks wandering familiar paths, but that mattered little to them, riding the nightly currents. The closest major road that could have borne vehicles lay to the south and west near Pasanauri, which might be considered a full-scale town and was nearly fifty kilometers away.
Milo expected that was where the Soviets would come from, and as he swung his gaze toward that area, his stomach clenched.
There, winding across the rough ground like a vast glowing worm, were the lights of the advancing Soviet column. Crawling but still advancing, he could see them: over a hundred armored vehicles and trucks chugging along, headlamps glaring into the night. Rippling like an escort of ants besides the undulating column of light were the ranks of marching men. There was no way to accurately assess their numbers in the dark, but Milo knew there couldn’t have been less than three hundred and possibly twice or three times that number, depending on if any groups ranged too far ahead or behind to be easily spotted near the line of vehicles.
Seeing such a force arrayed against them, Milo understood Lokkemand’s anger and decision to retreat. Before a force like this, his paltry escort was an afterthought, and with no magus to try to balance the scales, what choice did they have but to run?
“They’ll get a surprise when they get to the fortress,” Ambrose shouted, obviously having noticed the spectacle to the southwest.
“Won’t hardly make a dent,” Milo called back over the wind.
“But it will make them wary, and that will buy us time,” Rihyani said, her smile flashing at him in the moonlight. “Our success depends much more on their delay and less on how many we kill.”
Milo knew she was right, but it still galled him to think that he was supposed to be the tipping point in this war, but he still felt so small before the realities of industrialized battle.
They continued in silence as more of the countryside rolled beneath them, and they lost sight of the Soviets. The harness connecting Milo to Ambrose and Rihyani, fashioned from what must have been carriage leathers, was beginning to cut fiercely into Milo’s shoulders and back when Rihyani pointed to the east.
Milo forgot about the harness as he watched an entire village being put to the torch.
Thatched roofs crackled brightly, a stomach-turning exaggeration of the welcome glow that should have shown from their windows. A line of trucks, ten or so, stretched through and out of the plaza of the village, where figures moved in and out of the firelight. No one seemed to be attempting to put out the flames. A venerable mosque with an aged minaret stood in solemn witness to the destruction, its darkened windows looking for all the world like downcast eyes in the firelight.
“What is going on?” Milo shouted, unable to tear his eyes away.
“Recruiting,” Ambrose shouted back, nodding at the sight of figures being torn from small knots of people and dragged toward the trucks. “Conscripting the next round of meat for the Butcher.”
Milo looked on mutely, staring as the flames leaped higher. He wondered if soon the flames would climb high enough that the wind would catch fire, and at that thought, something kindled inside of him.
“We’re going down there,” he declared, canting clumsily toward the burning village.
Rihyani didn’t fight him, but their speed decreased markedly.
“What about Stalin?” she called. “If we stop him, doesn’t that put an end to all of it?”
“We can’t save everyone, Magus,” Ambrose shouted, casting a forlorn glance at the destruction below.
Before Milo could reply, a tussle broke out amongst those extracting conscripts from the crowd. Rifles barked, and two figures crumpled as a third was dragged toward the trucks. The fire in Milo’s chest melted any hesitation.
“Maybe,” Milo hissed through clenched teeth. “But I can certainly save some of them.”
He threw a fierce look at Ambrose and Rihyani.
The fey nodded, and Ambrose returned it with a grim smile.
“That or die trying!” the big man roared.
Their angle of descent and their speed increased.
Milo’s fingers tightened on the cane, whose raptor skull was freshly graven with runes inlaid with silver.
Now we get to see what you can really do, he thought and a chill ran through him as he felt Imrah’s spirit stir within.
I aim to please, master.
The conscriptors could be excused for not looking skyward as the trio descended upon them.
They were busy after all, dragging
men, boys, and the sturdier women from their families. Their attentions were on selecting those who looked useful while threatening everyone else with further violence. They hadn’t come with the intention of burning down the hovels and shooting the old woman and her enfeebled husband, but the backward peasants refused to see reason.
Though the Glorious Revolution had been forestalled by the pressing needs of the War, the cause still required bodies, and like it or not, these ingrates would have to do. After all, even such simpletons should have known that all worthy causes require sacrifice.
Being so distracted, they didn’t see the trio touch down behind the mosque, where they hastened to undo the jury-rigged harness. Even as they unbound straps and buckles, their eyes swept the deep shadows between the firelight as they endured the screams and wails of the beleaguered villagers.
From where he stood, Milo saw a knotted clump of shadows cast by families huddling away from the soldiers. The fury still burned in his chest, but he checked himself as he felt his muscles tensing to pounce. Though they hadn’t planned on this fight, they couldn’t play fast and loose with so many innocents at hand.
“Rihyani,” Milo hissed as he crept toward the edge of the mosque’s shadow. “I need you to find a way to get those people moving out of the village. I don’t want them standing around and catching a stray bullet.”
Looking around, he saw Rihyani frown in thought. Then she gave him a confident nod.
“I have an idea,” she said. “But it’s only going to work if you engage the soldiers.”
Milo nodded and looked at Ambrose. “I think we should avoid gunfire as long as possible,” the magus whispered. “We need to make sure one of those bastards doesn’t hear shots and starts gunning down the civilians.”
“Good idea,” Ambrose murmured, his eyes sweeping across the burning village. “You have something particular in mind?”
Milo’s face broke into a wolfish smile, his teeth catching the firelight.
“I read once that a commander burned the boats of his army to keep them from retreating,” Milo said, his fingers tightening on his cane. “Imagine how quickly that army would have come apart if they thought only half the boats were burned.”
Ambrose drew his bayonet blade from his belt and returned Milo’s grin.
“I’m with you, Magus,” he growled eagerly.
The soldiers out on conscription duty hadn’t made any other stops up to this point, and so only two of the trucks were packed with poor souls. This village was the first of what was planned to be a long night of dragging honest folk from their beds, which left the trucks at the rear empty save for two soldiers left as sentries in each vehicle.
The first two to die never had a chance.
Ambrose was on them like a lion among sheep, his knife flashing left and right. Crouching, he was already moving toward the next truck as Milo stepped forward, and the raptor skull vomited flame over the vehicle. Green flames so pale they seemed woven with molten silver splashed across bed and cab, clinging and warping with terrible fury.
The soldiers watching from the next two trucks sprang from their cabs, rifles in hand, shouting and cursing in confusion. Milo stalked toward them, his will pressing outward to warp their vision of him with the Art. He became a host of wavering splintered silhouettes before the burning vehicle. Blinking in the sudden eye-watering brightness, they raised rifles whose barrels swept toward one phantom that vanished before chasing another. They were so distracted that when Ambrose’s blade punched through their hearts, only the last man noticed that the other three were cooling in the dirt before his gaze emptied.
Two more trucks were set ablaze as cries and shouts sounded from the village, and they watched packs of soldiers racing between the burning buildings to see their handiwork. In one sweep, Milo saw no less than three dozen men emerging sporadically from the few unburnt hovels, what meager pilferings they could find in greedy hands.
Even sorely outnumbered, Milo felt his wrath increase as though it were fuel to the fire inside him.
His nightsighted eyes protesting at looking past the glaring flames, Milo spotted a flicker of movement behind the oncoming soldiers. For one second, he wondered if he’d vastly underestimated the enemy numbers, but then he saw a shadowy mob rushing away from the village. They seemed less like a mass of people than a low, scudding cloud of oily smoke.
“Rihyani,” he said and turned back to the soldiers, who were already ranging out from the village. Their rifles and electric torches were in their hands, but Milo’s befuddling illusion held, and they were unable to focus. Even from this distance, Milo could see fear glistening in eyes that reflected the flaming trucks.
The first few shots whistled into the dark harmlessly, but the sound and impotent fury stoked the rest of the men. Salvos, haphazard and aimed at nothing, tore through the night, while sergeants barked for good order to no effect. One squad of soldiers had even started firing at one of the trucks near the village, riddling the vehicle and the sentries with equal zeal.
Even with the illusion holding, the sheer amount of fire saw shots hissing past Milo and he needed to dart for cover. Spitting curses, he slid behind a low wall that had once marked the edge of the village proper as torch beams swept overhead and few more wild shots zipped by.
“I saw something!” a voice hollered in hoarse Russian over the sounds of men shooting and lever actions working frantically.
“Kill it!” another voice screamed, and the wall a stride or two from Milo sprayed mortar and chipped stone in all directions as the squad opened fire.
In a matter of seconds, the furious onslaught died off as soldiers fumbled for fresh magazines to ram home. Milo smiled wolfishly as he heard their sergeant cursing them for their poor order, and he was still wearing that toothy smile when he sprang up from behind the wall.
“My turn!” he snarled.
Lashes of flame tore across the firing line like huge infernal cats o’ nine tails.
The luckiest caught the brunt of the sorcerous onslaught and were dead before their bodies hit the ground in a shower of cinders and ash. The less fortunate were not immediately slain but had time to scream as the unnatural flames lapped across their bodies. They managed to flail and floundered in the remains of the fortunate dead, but it was a short-lived struggle. In less than ten seconds, every man had succumbed, and Milo was left staring wide-eyed at the devastation he’d wrought.
One furious stroke and ten men lay dead.
“I didn’t even know I could do that,” Milo muttered, and he felt Imrah’s chuckle grate against his mind.
I aim to please, master.
Milo realized he was gawking while more soldiers swept their torches toward the fresh fires. Milo dove behind the wall and scampered away as chunks of stone were punched out around him. Unlike the last batch, these soldiers seemed to be maintaining some semblance of order, their shots coming in overlapping volleys as they advanced in teams of three from cover to cover.
May I recommend using something less eye-catching than witchfire?
Milo swore as he scuttled through a breach in the wall and sprinted through a torrent of shots to leap through a house’s open window. One shot plucked at the tail of his black coat and he felt the heat of another across the back of an outstretched hand, but somehow he landed on the wood floor unpunctured.
“I’m open to suggestions,” Milo gasped as he crawled, winded and cringing, deeper into the house as the squad opened fire. Rounds snapped off plaster walls and whined off hanging pots and pans as Milo sought to move clear of the windows and looked for a back door.
The formula excites particles to make them ignite and burn, Imrah began with frustrating calm given the situation. It stands to reason the opposite could be achieved by simply reversing the process.
Milo heard orders being shouted and knew that in minutes, they’d be sweeping in to surround the house.
“Are you saying I can make things cold?” Milo asked. “What good is ice going
to do right now?”
A boot thudded against the bullet-pocked house’s door, and there was a splintering crash. Milo spotted a window big enough to climb out at the back of the house as he heard several pairs of feet thumping across the wood floor.
I thought humans loved their science? Ice is crystallized water, and what floods your fleshy bodies?
Milo was halfway through the window to the backlot when two soldiers rounded the corner of the house. Without time to think, Milo leveled the cane and launched a spike focus.
FREEZE
Faster than the eye could follow, something darted from the skull’s sockets into the chest of the leading soldier. He had enough time to stare bewildered at twin shards of black ice in his chest before his body erupted in all directions in red shards. Two of these gory icicles pierced the shoulder of the man beside him, and he managed to scream in horror before he burst into a frigid imitation of a porcupine.
Both men collapsed to the dirt, accompanied by the musical tinkling of shattering icicles.
Ice has a greater volume than water, Imrah informed him smugly. All that excess has to go somewhere.
“Dear God!” Milo gaped as he stumbled the rest of the way out of the window.
I recommend relocating.
There was a shout inside the house, and a rifle roared as the window frame splintered behind him.
With nothing but an open stretch for several strides, Milo’s options were bleak until he spied the roof and had an idea. Gathering himself physically and mentally, he leaped into the air.
Borrowing both the Art to make himself lighter and his necromist’s work on his coat to form wings, he soared through the air. Black wings flapping, he rose level with the house, his feet stretching out to go skipping across the rustling thatch.
He spun back as three more soldiers clambered out into the back lot, casting glances upward in obvious confusion. Milo downed each of them with frigid darts before they could draw a bead on him, then he scrambled up the roof as he heard shouting from the rest of the squad in front of the house.
Sorcerybound (World's First Wizard Book 2) Page 27
