Wizardborn (World's First Wizard Book 3)

by Aaron D. Schneider

  Milo ate until he was full and then had another two helpings. He had a feeling he’d need every single calorie soon.

  It was late morning by the time he and Roland returned to the suite, and they found the room much warmer, with a fire burning and the broken window thoroughly boarded up. The heat, combined with fatigue and the burdensome food in his belly, sapped whatever energy Milo possessed, and he staggered across the room to the divan, shedding his borrowed coat as he went. He’d very nearly thrown himself down on the velvet-covered couch when Roland wrapped an arm around him and began marching him to the bed.

  Even in his current state of near-exhaustion, Milo found the strength to arch his back and start to pull away.

  “Stop it, Milo. It’s not like that,” Roland snapped without letting go of him. “You need proper rest. Can’t get that on a couch.”

  Milo’s brain rejected the placation, demanding he rise and throw off Roland’s grip, but his body was plummeting onto the plush bed by the time it got the message. By then, it was too late. He was swimming in silken sheets, nestling in as his body remembered every bump and bruise of his time on the train and every danger since then. The bed seemed to swallow him, and with it came the oblivious embrace of sleep.

  He vaguely felt someone tug his boots off as his feet dangled at the end of the bed, and then he was gone.

  The hibernation of exhausted sleep was fractured for brief instances, but Milo was determined to fight off the distractions. Sometimes his eyes fluttered, and he got an unfocused glimpse of a long and sinewy figure stretched out beside him, not touching but desperately close. Other times his eyes didn’t even open as he felt the whisper of a breath across the back of his neck. The depths of exhaustion always won, and he was drowned anew by sleep.

  When he finally emerged, it was by degrees, and that extended awakening time was a slippery and pernicious thing.

  Milo felt as though he were ascending to the surface from slumber at the bottom of some black ocean. As he rose, he heard voices, muffled but insistent, and something that sounded like a snarled whisper. Then he became aware of bronze light through his eyelids, and it changed to red as it faded. After that, his eyes finally opened, but it took some time for him to remember where he was and what was going on.

  He beheld Roland’s suite, melancholy and imperial, in the dying light of the sky outside and the fire within. He shivered at the sudden realization that it had become cold again and drew the sheets around him as he scanned the room with gummed, blinking eyes. He thought for a second that he was alone, then he saw Roland’s legs dangling from the end of the divan.

  I wouldn’t have gotten much sleep on that, he thought, and just like that, he remembered everything. Heart leaping into his throat, his hand snaked down to his pocket and found it nearly empty. Licking dry lips, he checked to make sure Roland was not stirring and drew back the heaped sheets as quietly as he could.

  Smeared across the folds of the sheets were several broad strokes of ash.

  Cursing silently, he folded and piled the sheets to one side, glancing at Roland from time to time. The man didn’t stir, but Milo knew that could change in an instant. He’d always been able to spring from sleep to desperate action in an instant in their youth, and he couldn’t risk hoping things had changed.

  Milo’s eyes slid to the fire, where his clothes were still laid out, though on closer examination, someone had done a far better job than he had of cleaning them in his absence. The ash he’d spilled around the fireplace this morning had been cleaned up and fresh wood added, though that must have been some time ago since there was a fresh layer of ash glowing under the grate. Checking one last time that Roland still wasn’t stirring, Milo slid out of bed and padded silently over to the fireplace.

  With his breath sounding thunderous in his ears, Milo somehow made it to the fireplace without waking Roland. Crouching by the grate, he twisted around and could now see Roland lying stretched out on the divan, his face crushed into the velvet cushion as his back gently rose and fell with his steady breathing. There wouldn’t be a better time than this.

  Milo scooped up a handful of the ash from the fireplace, being as careful as he could not to spill a mote of it. It was uncomfortably hot in his hand, and as he drew his arm back, fingers tightening, he discovered there was still a live cinder within. He didn’t dare drop the ash, dousing it instead in the smothering flesh of his hand, but he couldn’t avoid allowing a sharp hiss of pain to escape his lips.

  “Milo?” Roland called from his couch, “What are you doing?”

  He was caught, but then he spied his trousers at hand. Snatching them up, he slipped the ash-filled hand into his pocket while the other hand stretched them wide. He turned and held them to Roland

  “Checking to see if my clothes were dry,” Milo said, fighting with every syllable to keep his voice steady. “Seems they were laundered at some point and then put back here to dry.”

  Roland was still stretched out on the divan, but he’d raised himself on his elbows to look at Milo. He blinked once, squinted at the uplifted trousers, then managed a sleepy smile.

  “One of the advantages of being the leader of an army.” He chuckled as he rolled his head from one side to the other. “Never a shortage of hands to do the laundry.”

  Milo gave a little laugh in reply that sounded nervous in his ears, then rose as he gathered the rest of his clothes.

  “I’d like to change back into my uniform,” Milo said, unsure of which part of the whole situation made him uncomfortable. “To maintain discipline if nothing else.”

  Roland curled and stretched like some great feline on the couch and then settled into a seated position.

  “Go ahead.” He shrugged with a yawn.

  Milo stared back as his chin lowered and his eyebrows rose. Roland blinked again, then flushed red.

  “Oh!” he said, a sheepish smile forcing its way across his face. “Of course.”

  He rose to his feet so sharply that the divan scooted back a few inches, and he turned to scowl at the furniture before look backing at Milo apologetically. When he said nothing, he darkened to a shade Milo might not have thought possible and turned to leave the room.

  “Let me know when you’re done,” he called from the door. “We still need to finish that conversation.”

  Milo nodded and waited for the door to shut behind Roland before he dared to breathe easily.

  Gingerly he drew his hand from his trousers, still careful not to spill any of the precious ash. The blistered flesh of his hand wasn’t pretty, but he’d survive. Flexing his fingers, Milo looked at the dying light of day and wondered if when the time came, he could bring himself to do what was necessary to his former brother. Milo knew he had every reason to hate him, but seeing him again and glimpsing his twisted but sincere motivations, Milo struggled to stoke his rage to its previous level.

  Neither of them was who they once were, to the world or to each other, but there was so much history between them, it was almost impossible for Milo to think of it ending.

  Then Milo remembered the abomination on the island in the Neva river, and dread sharpened something as dangerous as hate in him. Where anger might no longer burn hot enough, the icy grip of fear might be enough to harden his heart to do the job.

  He supposed he wouldn’t know until the moment came, and with a heavy sigh, he set about changing back into his uniform.

  The sky was turning purple above them as they rolled down the crumbling streets, entourage in tow.

  Roland had explained that sometimes things grew more “interesting” in Petrograd at night when the smaller bandit bands attempted to scavenge or steal supplies. As a result, along with the Rolls Royce, they were accompanied by a truck full of soulless soldiers. Roland had explained as they’d left the gates of the palace that they’d been attempting to clean out the few remaining parasites hanging about the city, but some of them were proving remarkably resilient.

  “I suspect once we start using the Res
onator to acquire aircraft, we can try an aerial application,” he’d muttered as they began weaving between the sloughing assembly of buildings. “Not an efficient use of hollow gas, but once things begin, we’ll need to guarantee the area is secure.”

  Milo looked at Roland, barely able to see him after staring out over the pools of light created by the vehicle’s headlights.

  “Aerial application?” he asked, trying and failing to sound interested in only the most academic senses. “Hollow gas?”

  “Yes, we never talked about that, did we?” Roland asked. “The Resonator can enslave entire cities, but it is targeted, and even under optimum conditions, it would take at least a day or two. The hollow gas is another creation of Zlydzen’s to accelerate the process.”

  Milo knew he wasn’t going to like where this was going, but he nodded along as Roland spoke, hoping to squeeze out every last detail before his escape. He fought the urge to look around to see where Rihyani and Ambrose might be coming from. They would arrive when they would arrive, and until then, he was keeping a hand near his ash-filled pocket.

  “Not sure how it works, of course, and I can’t say I like it,” Roland said, shaking his head. “But the basic fact is that the gas kills something in the targets, so even a quick burst of resonance can enslave the meat that’s left. They start breaking down after a time, but that takes weeks, sometimes months, and as it gets colder, they seem to last longer.”

  Roland punched Milo in the arm and smiled with a flash of teeth in the deepening shadow.

  “Good thing for us winter is coming, eh?”

  Milo only nodded and turned back to the street.

  It was well and truly night when they finally came to a stop in a part of the city where the scorched facades of what had once been homes stood side by side. They were in various states of ruin, some little more than a few bricks leaning against blackened spars, while others had one or two walls still standing.

  “Here we are,” Roland said and opened his door.

  “What are we doing here?” Milo asked, narrowed eyes darting between the houses and Roland.

  “Finishing that conversation,” Roland said as he clambered down and walked into the light cast by Rolls Royce’s headlights.

  Milo saw that their escort had parked behind them and the soldiers were disembarking to maintain a perimeter.

  Swearing quietly to himself, Milo got out of the vehicle and walked toward Roland, their shadows stretching long under the headlights’ glare. Roland looked up and down the street, his breath rolling out in plumes of white that glittered in the electric light.

  “Do you recognize it?” Roland asked, nodding at the street, a small smile playing on his lips.

  Milo looked around and shook his head. He’d already decided one stretch of ruin looked much the same as any other, and his mind was on more important questions than what wrecked street they were on.

  “This is the street where you were almost run down,” Roland said, hands sweeping in a wide gesture at the road in front of them. “This is where I saved your life, the first time anyway.”

  Milo looked down at the indicated ground and then around them. It could have been, but so could a dozen other streets he’d seen in the city. He looked at Roland, who was waiting for a reaction, but Milo felt certain their time was growing short. If something was going to happen, he was certain it would happen soon.

  “Okay.” Milo shrugged, the sable fur of his borrowed coat tickling his jaw.

  Roland’s smile faltered for a second, then he pointed to a gap between two buildings where shattered bricks and a few charred beams lay in a pile.

  “That’s the alley where we first met.” He nodded eagerly. “That’s where you took my hand and trusted me to take care of you.”

  Milo stared at the alley, which could hardly be called that, given the state of the buildings around it. Roland was expecting a great surge of emotion at the revelation, but Milo found he couldn’t even pretend he was moved. Anxiety about the coming escape and gnawing dread at what he’d discovered had eaten up whatever emotional capital he had left.

  “Why are we here, Roland?” he asked, having to raise his voice as the wind picked up. It smelled of ash, sulfur, and old earth.

  Roland’s face fell, and for a second, beneath the tattoos, scars, and roguish good looks, Milo saw the friend and protector he remembered: fierce and strong and dangerous, but still so young and so afraid. Milo pressed a finger into the stinging wound on his hand to try to shake off the enchantment of the moment. Being drawn in now could have dire consequences, and not just for him.

  “I wanted to make my offer to you here,” Roland said, stepping closer and lowering his voice. Milo resisted the urge to recoil. “Here, where I saved you, I wanted to ask you to save me.”

  Milo, who’d been avoiding Roland’s gaze by looking at the alley, whipped his head around to stare at him. That wasn’t the offer he’d been expecting.

  “I know Zlydzen is using me, and it is only a matter of time before I’m not useful,” Roland continued. “It could be tomorrow or five years from now, but the reality is that inevitably I’m going to join them.”

  His thumb hooked over his shoulder at the soldiers fanned out across the street. Milo felt a shiver that had nothing to do with the cold as he glimpsed their cold, flat eyes.

  “I can’t walk away either because he’ll hunt me down,” Roland added quickly as though trying to preempt the suggestion from Milo. “Those things he’s struck a bargain with have tracked targets across oceans when properly motivated, and if I run, I won’t know a moment’s peace until one of them rips my throat out one night.”

  Milo could only nod as another shiver wracked his body. He imagined Borjikhan’s eyes watching him from a dark alley, Tsar’Vodyanoy’s smile inside a sewer drain, or Lempo’s shadow passing overhead. He’d only faced the Hiisi one on one, and with all his magic, it had always been a near thing. Someone like Roland wouldn’t stand a chance against a host of them.

  “So then, what’s the plan?” Milo asked, hoping against hope that things weren’t going to go as he feared.

  Roland moved half a step closer and was so near that even whispering, Milo could hear him over the wind and rumbling engines.

  “Help me while you work with us,” Roland said, the white gusts of his breath breaking on the side of Milo’s face. “You’re powerful, and Zlydzen, even with how much he hates you, will see you could be useful. That will give you a chance and an opportunity to figure out what magic he uses. Once you’ve puzzled it out, we can turn the tables and dispose of that warped monster.”

  For a second Milo imagined it, his mind racing as he thought about Rihyani and Ambrose creeping through the rubble even as he stood there. What if this was another way? What if Roland was offering him a better way to take down Zlydzen, a way that didn’t involve destroying the oldest friend and only family he’d ever had?

  There was one nagging detail that caught in Milo’s mind like a barbed hook.

  “And then what?” he asked, the words coming out almost before he’d had time to formulate the thought.

  Roland blinked several times and raked a hand through his hair.

  “What do you mean, ‘and then what’?” he asked in an almost-laugh that became a snort.

  Milo skewered Roland’s eyes with his own.

  “Say your plan works. I take control of the Resonator, and we kill Zlydzen,” Milo rattled off, his voice beginning to buzz with growing anger. “What happens next, Roland? We make the big score, and then what?”

  Roland took a step back, neck arching and face twisting as though he’d been slapped.

  “Whatever the hell we want!” he snapped, baring his teeth in a savage mockery of a grin. “We’ll have an army and means to conquer all of Europe, perhaps without firing a shot, if we can figure it out before Zlydzen’s campaign starts. Think of it, Milo! We could not only end the war, but we could bring about a new order.”

  The fire raging in Rol
and’s eyes withered Milo’s heart in his chest. He wished it didn’t hurt as much as it did, but by God, he’d hoped he was wrong.

  “What if I wanted to destroy the Resonator?” Milo asked wearily. “If I refused to use the power we’d stolen from Zlydzen?”

  Roland’s burning stare searched Milo’s face.

  “Why would you do anything so stupid?”

  Milo shook his head. Could he even explain the horror of what that techno-magical construct was? Would it even matter?

  “It is evil, Roland,” he said, every word heavy. “It doesn’t just make them do what you want, it hollows them out. You didn’t just trick or bully those people in Gzhatsk; you scraped their souls out!”

  Somewhere in the darkness rubble shifted, sending bricks slithering down over each other. Roland’s eyes darted through the darkness as he motioned some of his soldiers over to the side of the street where the disturbance had come from.

  Milo held his breath as four men trudged over, rifles on their shoulders, but they picked among the ruined buildings without incident. They emerged after a minute and settled in as sentries along the street half a dozen strides from Roland and Milo.

  “Souls and evil?” Roland snorted after another minute of listening to nothing but wind and combustion engines. “Did you become religious or something in the last few years?”

  Milo opened his mouth to retort, but his tongue didn’t cooperate as a rush of tangled thoughts bounced around his mind. What was he talking about? By what right did he talk about souls and evil? He could have talked about stripping one’s will, but he knew with a deep certainty it was more than that.

  “I’m not religious,” he murmured. “But seeing these things, doing these things, performing magic? It’s opened my mind to a world that isn’t only what I can see or touch. There are realities besides the physical; I know that now, and knowing means I can see there is such a thing as evil.”

  Roland’s fingers raked through his hair with such ferocity and frequency, Milo expected blood to start trickling from his hairline.