“What do you think?” Milo asked quietly so that only Ambrose could hear him over the wind. “You want to stay out here while I go inside? Keep an eye on these two.”
Ambrose squinted down the length of the barrel, some internal calculation swimming in his head before he sighed and took the butt from his shoulder.
“No.” He grunted before sliding his weapon into the driver’s seat with a petulant huff. “Who knows what’s in there? These bumpkins better not fiddle with my Gewehr. I just finished some adjustments, and I don’t want them tampered with.”
Milo shook his head.
“You’re worried more about leaving the gun out here than going in unarmed?” he asked incredulously as he took the pistol from his belt and deposited it on the passenger seat of the cab.
“I’m never totally unarmed,” Ambrose said and gave his knuckles a crack.
“No, I don’t suppose so,” Milo muttered and raised his cane to his forehead in jaunty salute. “Now come on, let’s go talk to a priest about pixie problems.”
Reverend Father Akaki Zoidze was a small man with deeply lined skin the texture and color of old leather. The folds in his face hid his eyes beneath the sagging weight of wrinkles. On seeing the man, Milo had attempted to brace himself and set aside his typical irritation with the elderly. Milo had come to associate advanced age with a vague, muddled response to life, expecting most who lived to such an age to be either bemusedly good-natured or distractingly cantankerous. In the Wassenhaus, he’d known the nonsensical ire of the latter and the uncomfortable affections of the former and had since decided he did not have much time for either.
For better or worse, the priest was neither of these, seeming instead to be a man who was acutely aware of everything around him and therefore acutely displeased.
“Deacon Saba, the lumbering dolt,” he hissed between the few teeth that remained in his mouth, “should have shot you at the door. It would have been kinder than anything I have to say to you, young pagan.”
“Pagan?” Milo asked, unable to stop himself. “That’s an interesting insult. I’m not sure it’s accurate, either.”
The priest gave a hacking exhalation that took Milo some time to recognize as a laugh.
“What else would you call a young fool dressed like a soldier who comes looking for heathen gods?”
Milo frowned, wondering if he needed to reassess his estimation of the priest’s faculties.
“I’m not sure I understand, Father,” Milo said, attempting to strike a gentler tone. “We were sent to look for the marquis. I’m not sure gods, heathen or otherwise, were part of that.”
The next bark of laughter could have been a muddled cough, and the small, shriveled man shook his head hard enough to make his jowls swing.
“Disaster is the companion of the aimless traveler.” Milo assumed it was a proverb. “Yes, the Marquis of Veils is one of the names he wears among his Dobilni kin, but it is not the only one. Among the superstitious fools down in Gergeti and other small hamlets, he is whispered to be Ochopintre, the wooded god of the hunt, or some other petty deity for savages to make bloody offerings to.”
Milo blinked and exchanged looks with Ambrose.
“How does a priest know about all this?” Milo asked, the words coming out blunt and terse, but as such honest.
“Why would a priest not know the superstitions of the ignorant fools he serves?” Father Zoidze asked, thrusting a stubbled gray chin at Milo. “To save their souls, you must know what holds their hearts, and on this God-cursed mountain, that Dobilni with divine aspirations has had these ingrates in the palm of his hand. Sixty years ministering to them, and in all that time, only those two idiot deacons to show for it!”
The priest rocked back in his chair and crossed his arms as though suddenly cold, looking more shrunken and mean for the change.
“Ochopintre still gets his sacrifices, and I still get to see the heathen on Sunday, half-asleep in the pews from their late-night revels,” he spat before his seamed face molded into a frown that he leveled at Milo. “Is that what you’ve come for then, to make a red offering on one of his stones in the valley?”
Milo paused for a moment, unsure of what to say. The bitter old man seemed to be no friend to the marquis but didn’t seem opposed to talking about him.
“We need to contact him,” Milo said, choosing his words carefully. “Our friend the contessa is in need of his assistance.”
“Contessa?” The old man sniffed. “One of the slatternly females of the wicked Dobilni, no doubt.”
“Yes.” Milo nodded, assuming that “Dobilni” was analogous to fey. His elixir translated well, but sometimes the proper names of things could trip it up.
“It makes sense that she would send you here,” the priest muttered, rocking slightly as he tightened his grip around himself. “God must know my sins need further penance.”
Again, Milo stole a glance at Ambrose, who simply shrugged. He remembered that Ambrose didn’t speak Georgian, so was at best reading the priest’s body language.
“Listen!” Father Zoidze said sharply, drawing Milo’s attention back to him. The priest’s brows were raised, and Milo got his first and only look at the man’s startlingly brilliant blue eyes.
“If you are seeking the marquis, you are going to need a map,” he growled and reached inside his desk to produce a small sheet of parchment and a quill writing set. “If you get out of here quick enough, you may be able to reach it as the sun is setting because the passage to his home is most easily seen at sunrise and sunset. You’ll be able to tell by the mists, I expect.”
The old man began to scratch on the parchment in short spidery strokes.
“Not to be ungrateful,” Milo began, unsure of how to phrase his concern, “but you seem awfully helpful in finding the marquis when you clearly don’t like him.”
“Is that supposed to be a question?” Father Zoidze asked without looking up.
“If you hate him so much, why tell people how to find him?” Milo asked. “Why help the Dobilni?”
The old man frowned down at his hastily scrawled map, the quill poised for another dip in the ink.
“It’s the deal we struck,” he said softly. “A long time ago.”
A few more scratches of the quill and the map was done.
“Take it and go,” Father Zoidze muttered as he held it out to Milo. “I’ll pray you renounce your wicked ways, but I doubt it will do much good. If you're already this far down the Devil’s path, there seems little hope for any of us.”
Milo took the map and looked it over. It was crude, but he could clearly see the church and trace a route along the mountainside to a narrow valley filled with sentinel pines.
“Thank you,” Milo said and made to rise.
The priest’s hand shot out, snaring Milo’s wrist with surprising strength.
Milo felt Ambrose surge up behind him, but he waved him away with his free hand. Something in the old man’s grip told Milo this wasn’t a threat but a plea.
“Dealing with their kind never ends well, my son,” Father Zoidze said in a husky whisper. “Whatever your aims, however noble, just remember that. Take it from someone who knows.”
With that, the old man released Milo, sank back down behind his desk, and would say no more.
Milo and Ambrose were a half-dozen strides from the church doors when Ambrose grabbed Milo by the shoulders and bore him to the ground. Both men hit the stone floor together, and quick as thought, the bodyguard had them rolling behind a wide stone column resplendent with iconography.
“What the—” Milo snarled before Ambrose’s paw slapped over his mouth.
“Trouble,” the big man growled in the magus’ ear, then shuffled to make himself as narrow as possible behind the pillar, which was no small task.
A heartbeat later, the doors to the church banged open, and they could hear the scuff of many feet on the stones as the bearded deacon, Saba, bellowed his protest.
“How dare yo
u! This is a house of God!” the deacon bellowed as he came up behind the crowd entering the church. “Leave now!”
“I’m terribly sorry to inconvenience you, Deacon, but we have business with some of your new parishioners,” a familiar voice replied in smooth Georgian. “As soon as we have a brief conversation with them, we will no longer darken your door.”
Hunkered behind the pillar, Milo and Ambrose watched as Percy Astor, now clad in a gray silk suit and matching Homburg, strode by with a cadre of the Georgian mercenaries in dark chokhas. The two men pressed against the pillar as the party strode by and Deacon Saba tried to push his way to the front. Milo allowed himself a petty smile when he saw the stitches on the side of Percy’s face where Milo had struck him with his cane, along with his left hand swaddled in heavy bandages.
He was so enjoying the sight, Ambrose had to haul him farther back behind the pillar, but not before Milo caught a glimpse of the opposite wall. There was a cavity in the wall, a miniature shrine where icons, some in frames, some painted directly onto the stones, were on display. There were places for votive candles, but the light spilling across the space came from a large open window less than two meters off the ground.
The encounter between the unlucky deacon and the American continued as Milo pressed his back against the pillar and took a steadying breath. He checked to make sure the attention of the intruders was upon Saba and saw that the other deacon had arrived, rifle in hand.
“No, Iacob!” Saba cried, trying to step between his fellow churchman and the half-dozen men who raised their weapons in response, a collection of stocky carbines.
“Leave now!” Iacob shouted hoarsely, and to the man’s credit, his hands and voice were both steady.
“Please don’t make this any worse than it has to be,” Percy said with a note of distracted irritation rankling his smooth intonation. “This can be resolved quickly if you would list—”
“This is a house of God!” Saba practically wailed. “Go outside, then we can talk!”
The mercenaries flinched at the outburst. Milo was certain shots were about to be fired, but miraculously, everyone stayed their hand for a moment.
Milo decided they needed to get out of here before the bullets started flying, and there was no better time than now.
“Follow me,” he hissed into Ambrose’s ear, and, knowing it would be pointless to steal another look, darted over to the alcove.
“Leave now,” Iacob repeated, and there was something final in his voice. Milo wasn’t the only one who heard it.
Under the gaze of saints and patriarchs, they scuttled beneath the window as the thunder of six carbines firing filled the church. Both men froze for a second, convinced the shots were meant for them, but when no rounds chewed the stone, and when Saba’s dismayed scream chased the echo of the shots, they understood the truth.
“Why does no one ever listen to me?” Percy muttered, and there was a brief rustle of cloth.
“MURDERERS! TRAITORS! GOD DAMN YOU!” Saba howled, his voice cracking with the impotent fury coursing through him as he collapsed into heavy sobs.
“Hardly language for church,” Percy chided. There was the click of a hammer being cocked, and the bark of a pistol silenced Saba’s weeping. “Though I suppose you might be right on that last point.”
Fury, caustic in Milo’s chest, rose into his throat. He growled a curse, and the raptor skull’s sockets glowed with sympathetic flames. The churchmen were sour old fools, but they didn’t deserve this. Not on their behalf.
Milo was halfway out of the shrine’s alcove when Ambrose grabbed him and dragged him back under the window. Milo tried to pull free, but the Nephilim’s strength and leverage were undeniable as he held Milo long enough to draw his eyes.
“No weapons,” Ambrose mouthed, gesturing with an empty hand. “Too many.”
Milo ground his teeth, swallowing the rage like bitter bile. Ambrose was right; they weren’t going to be any good if they got themselves killed. Silently, he swore that one day, Percy Astor was going to pay.
“Search the place,” Percy called to his mercenaries. “Bring the priest to me for interrogation, but I imagine he will be as useless as those poor deacons.”
Ambrose was already hoisting Milo up to the open window when they heard the tramp of boots.
“Do be quick about it,” Mr. Astor called after his goons. “If my compatriot gets bored, he’s apt to start burning things down, and it would be a shame to deface so picturesque a place.”
Milo swung himself over the window and discovered that the ground outside the church was significantly lower than the floor inside the church. He had enough time to register that in a surge of panic before he struck that ground hard.
Stars detonated inside Milo’s head, and only reflex had him rolling away, thus avoiding Ambrose’s descent. The big man took the fall in stride and had hauled Milo to his feet before he’d managed to force his winded lungs to take another breath.
They were standing on the grassy soil ringing the base of the church, only a few steps away from the paved walkway that wound about the building and connected it to the belltower.
“Belltower,” Ambrose suggested in a low voice as he searched the grounds for mercenaries. “We scamper down the outside and see if we can make a break for the Rollsy.”
Milo nodded, still fighting to breathe consistently, much less speak.
There were no apparent enemies outside, but Milo expected that was because this side of the church was farthest from the courtyard. The wind howled across the hilltop, but he was certain he heard the rumble of idling vehicles. Even if the Americans had gathered more mercenaries, those that had attacked Rihyani and company had numbered nearly a thirty, so half as many men could be expected by the vehicles. Then there was whatever new deviant companion Percy had acquired that liked to burn things. An American, maybe? Setting things on fire seemed to Milo a very American sort of thing.
They made it to the belltower and clambered down its rough-hewn side without incident, and both men heaved a sigh of relief.
“If those bastards have touched my rifle…” Ambrose hissed acidly as they crept along the base of the belltower toward the courtyard where they’d left the Rollsy.
“Glad your mind is on the task at hand,” Milo muttered.
They reached the corner of the belltower, and Milo peered around to assess the situation.
He silently swore and pulled back, then shuffled over to let Ambrose steal a glance. Ambrose gave his own curse and slid back to exchange unsure glances with Milo.
The courtyard was crowded with three squat canvas-backed trucks, which blocked the view of the Rollsy and everything else, for that matter. There was a driver in each truck, but that left at least a few mercenaries unaccounted for. Both men stood, pressed flat against the belltower, thinking and listening, but the only sound to be heard was the whine of the wind, underpinned by the growl of the truck engines.
Milo’s mind raced as his fingers darted into the various pockets of his coat, nervous energy leaving him double- or triple-checking the paraphernalia on his person. He had a plan forming, but it all depended on him having…
His fingers brushed three corked vials, and his face broke into a wicked grin.
He drew out the first vial from the extra-dimensional pocket woven into his coat, giving the long glass tube a little shake that set the black grit within to twinkling with unnatural light.
Ambrose saw what Milo had produced, and he gave an approving nod.
“I’ve got a plan,” Milo said, his voice loud enough to be heard over the keening wind.
The men sitting behind the wheels of the trucks didn’t have a chance to understand their peril until it was far too late. Like their companions tearing through Gergeti Trinity Church, they were all veteran fighters, men of the mountains who’d made their living fighting foreign powers who sought to dominate their homeland and occasionally taking work with those willing to make generous contributions to their cause.
Hammered relentlessly upon the anvil of life, they were hard men, willing to do hard things.
They’d fought Russians and they’d fought Ottomans and now the Germans, and to them, one foreigner was pretty much the same as the next when it came to fighting and dying, slight variations in tactics and plunder notwithstanding. The fact was, they were experienced at guerrilla warfare and had faced “superior” forces in the past.
Yet, they’d never faced a necromist, and so were singularly unprepared when coils of black sand began to slither under their vehicles.
Only one of the drivers, the one parked closest to the ramshackle German vehicle, noticed the flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye, but he quickly dismissed it. He chalked it up to the wind kicking up a little dervish, gone as soon as you realized it was there. After all, professional freedom fighter or not, he had other things on his mind.
The business with the Americans had been more dangerous than expected, and when their platoon's commanding officer had threatened to abandon the Americans, they’d doubled the offered fee, including the pay of those slain. Seeing as this driver had two cousins among the dead, this turn of events struck him as significant. The one man who might have done something was too busy trying to plan what percent would be fair to give to the men’s families and what percent to keep for himself to pay real attention to the trickle of glittering black that slid under his vehicle.
He was still trying to work out percentages in his head when a ribbon of congealing midnight slithered up the side of his truck, lanced through the door window, and tore out his throat like the other two drivers.
The shattering of glass could be heard even over the hellish wind, and it drew the attention of the men standing watch at the church door and by the Rollsy. As one, they turned, and after giving a chorus of piercing whistles, they slunk back toward the vehicles, rifles ready.
Seeing their fellows slumped in their seats, windows shattered, they took positions along the wall bordering the church, eyes searching for snipers. That ensured they had nowhere to run when Ambrose and Milo sprang on them.
Sorcerybound (World's First Wizard Book 2) Page 15