“Are you mad?” Captain Saakadze cried.
“Get the rear guard up here,” Ezekiel called as he swung forward to fire the Gewehr before Milo could emerge for another blast of witchfire. “And keep an eye out for the fat one.”
The resignation in Captain Saakadze’s voice was palpable, but he shouted back down the forest path, and Milo heard the rush of feet coming down toward the glade between the crackle of suppressive fire hammering at the stone.
Soon they’d have enough to flank his position, coming at him from too many angles to counter them all at once. He needed to give Ambrose a better shot before that.
Steeling his nerves, Milo willed the beak open and darted to the other side of the stone to spray a torrent of green flame. He expected it would be a distraction, an impotent show of force before he raced back to the second stone in his row. As it was, one of the mercenaries had advanced several strides since opening fire.
The belch of flame bowled him back and set him alight.
He didn’t even have time to scream as Milo’s sudden appearance filled his startled lungs with hungry flames. His body spasmed on the ground, and a single round from his carbine flew off into the dark. Whether the shot came from the superheated metal or an expiring twitch, Milo never knew.
Milo continued the sweep of the flame and caught another advancing mercenary, but the man was farther from the blast, so only one side of him kindled. To Milo’s horror, the man screamed but did not go down as flames licked his body. The magus was ducking back behind the standing stone when the burning man let out a blood-chilling shriek and charged Milo, firing from the hip as he went.
None of the mad shots struck home, but that didn’t deter the flaming mercenary, who gripped his smoldering gun like a club and launched himself at the magus. His body reacting before his mind could calculate a response, Milo turned the wild swing aside with his cane, just as Ambrose had shown him, and then snapped the shaft of the cane up and across. The blow took the pain-maddened man across the unburned side of his face, resulting in a spray of blood and teeth.
Reflexively Milo swept the cane down hard on the man’s exposed wrists, sending the carbine-cudgel tumbling among the vine-wrapped bones. Snarling and spitting crimson froth, the mercenary lunged at Milo to trap him in a fiery embrace, but the magus pivoted back. The man stumbled, and with the moment of respite, Milo drew on the potency of the staff.
The burning man rose as Milo swept the cane out in a two-handed stroke. The stone shaft connected with the man’s neck, shattering vertebrae, but its arc would not be denied as it drove his flaming head to crash into the standing stone. There was a sickening, squelching crack as the man’s head deformed against the stone.
The slashed eyes stenciled across the stone seemed to glint as though each had received a fresh spattering of blood, and Milo felt the magical presence stir violently. His skin erupted in gooseflesh, and at his feet, fresh vines burst from the ground to coil around the body of the dead mercenary. Milo lurched back a few steps, horrified as the thick tendrils of plant matter smothered the lingering flames and dug deep in the open wounds like carrion worms searching for choice morsels.
He was so overcome he didn’t realize he’d moved too far from his cover, and a shot ripped a bloody furrow across his calf. Milo’s leg buckled underneath him, and he pitched backward to the ground, shock robbing him of his voice.
“Ezekiel, you idiot!” Percy shouted from his hiding place behind the tree. “We need him alive.”
“Cease fire!” Captain Saakadze shouted.
“Hold your horses, Percy. I just winged him.” The cowboy chuckled. “Damned fine shot if I do say so.”
His breath whistled between Milo’s teeth as throbs of agony rolled up through his leg. In the back of his head, a voice was screaming for him to focus and grab the unguents from his coat, but by the time he’d gotten organized enough for the effort, hard hands were grabbing him and rolling him over. At one point, what must have been a foot brushed his wounded leg, and he let out a snarl of pain and thrashed. A knee was planted in his back, and he felt a barrel being pressed against the back of his head.
“Don’t move,” shouted a voice Milo was sure couldn’t have come from a man any older than himself.
“Alive!” Percy called. “I need him alive.”
“It’s a witch!” Milo heard one of the mercenaries shout in Georgian.
“A kudiani!” another cried. “Iacob, don’t touch it!”
“You let him go, and I’ll drop you where you stand.” Ezekiel’s voice was much closer than before. “Keep him right there, and I’ll hogtie the little witch.”
Milo tried to twist his head around to see what was happening and caught a glimpse of the glade filling with the rest of the mercenaries and the advancing cowboy before his captor reacted.
“Face-down,” a wide-eyed teen growled at him before ramming the barrel into Milo’s face.
The unforgiving rim jammed hard enough into Milo’s eyebrow to break the skin, and his blood dripped onto the soil. Between spasms of pain from his leg, he wondered if the gore-hungry vines would be drawn by his blood, it being so near, but a glance showed they hadn’t moved an inch. All the same, he thought he should keep a weather eye on the earth as droplets of blood dripped from the corner of his eye. It turned out that he wouldn’t have to keep his vigil long.
He heard Ezekiel’s perpetual snuffling giggle nearly on top of him when Ambrose decided now was the time to open fire. The carbine roared from within the trees, and Milo felt something hot and wet spatter across the back of his neck. The weight on his back vanished. Careful of his leg, he rolled over as Ambrose hammered out a pair of shots. Milo saw Ezekiel pitch forward with a mad guffaw as another mercenary, one who must have been in the rear guard, slumped sideways with a shocked mewling sound. Captain Saakadze took a round through the shoulder and fell, but to his credit, he twisted as he dropped, attempting to bring his carbine to bear one-handed. Two more rounds punched through his chest as he hit the ground, and when the dust settled, he lay motionless and glassy-eyed.
Percy and the remaining two mercenaries ran for cover behind the standing stone opposite Milo’s, chased by two more shots before a sharp plink sounded from Ambrose’s sniper’s roost.
The American and his goons seemed to understand the significance of the sound and swung clear of the cover they’d just entered to pour a torrent of leaden fire into the woods. Had Milo been paying attention, he might have laughed at the way their shots scattered like mad hail, none going anywhere near Ambrose except by accident, but he was otherwise occupied.
Ezekiel was on his hands and knees less than two meters from the magus, a strange sucking sound coming from his chest as he coughed out a garbled chuckle. Blood frothed from his lips began to well up from inside his buckskins in time with the sucking noise. Milo dared to hope that Ambrose had struck something vital in the fiendish scalp hunter, his pain-addled mind thinking of old stories of killing horrors with a wound through the heart.
Ezekiel gave an ecstatic heaving laugh and expelled a spray of blood upon the ground in front of him. Milo’s stomach sank as he saw the clear glint of metal amidst the blood coating the ground, then the cowboy’s Cheshire-cat smile over the bullet.
“My turn,” he said, and his bloody smile gleamed black in the moonlight.
A corroded pistol slid free of the cowboy’s belt as Milo scrambled back, hands groping around him for his cane.
Since the shooting had begun, none had noticed the growing sound of many large forms moving through the trees. Milo only became aware of the thunderous approach as imminent death sharpened his senses to a razor’s edge and time seemed to slow. The rushing creak and groan of heavy limbs shouldered aside proved a counterpoint to the slow mechanical click of Ezekiel’s pistol hammer being drawn back, while the dull thud of broad, heavy feet juxtaposed the sharp, incessant barks of gunfire.
Ezekiel grinned malevolently as he made a show of taking his aim, but his eye
s widened comically as Milo felt something immense looming over him.
Milo had an impression of huge legs swathed in metallic scale greaves—or was it the creature’s skin?—passing over him, then one elephantine foot descended upon Ezekiel. The cowboy’s pistol fired up into the foot, but it didn’t slow the step that smashed his body flat to the ground. Milo felt the impact reverberate up through the earth.
The other leg passed overhead. Milo flinched under its shadow, but it came to rest several meters away. Milo beheld the huge, vaguely humanoid shape before him, two huge legs leading to a massive abdomen that was girdled with patchwork leathers that could have served as sails before muscle-mounded shoulders emerged with several lumpy, hairy heads at the apex.
The gunfire in the glade ceased as every eye fell upon the many-headed giant whose enormous back was still to Milo as it stood upon the twitching body of Ezekiel.
“I AM BAKBAK-DEVI,” the giant rumbled from several throats at once, the sound like a chorus from the bowels of the earth. “I COME TO HONOR THE SACRIFICE. CEASE YOUR QUARRELS. THIS PLACE IS HALLOWED.”
Without a word, all weapons were lowered, and an eerie calm descended over the glade.
Bakbak-Devi pivoted, foot still grinding the pitifully fidgeting body of the scalp hunter, then stooped to regard Milo with a host of yellow eyes, several of which did not occur in pairs.
“YOU ARE WELCOME, SUPPLICANT,” the giant said, its faces breaking into tusk-snarled grins. “IT HAS BEEN SOME TIME SINCE ANY OFFERED A LIFE OF THEIR OWN KIND UPON THE STONES.”
Milo’s eyes strayed to the vine-smothered corpse, and his stomach knotted.
“I am looking for the marquis,” Milo said, doing his best to push down the revulsion rising within him. “I need his help.”
The Lernaean ogre drew back, and for a single trembling second, Milo wondered if he’d said something to offend it. Its yellow gaze narrowed, and it stooped even lower to draw in a heavy sniff with several snouts.
“YES, YOU HAVE BEEN AMONG THE FOLK,” Babak-Devi declared, then with impressive gentleness, extended a hand to help Milo to his feet. “COME WITH ME, AND I WILL MAKE YOUR INTRODUCTIONS.”
“I have a friend here with me,” Milo called to the giant as he rose, balancing on his uninjured leg. “He will be coming with me.”
With a rustle and snapping of twigs, Ambrose emerged from his spot and rushed over to Milo’s side, snatching up the magus’ cane and the Gewehr on his way over. Bakbak-Devi watched without comment, only straightening so Ambrose could slide a shoulder under Milo’s arm.
“Thanks for not forgetting me,” Ambrose muttered as he handed over the cane.
“Don’t mention it,” Milo said out the corner of his mouth as he continued to watch the giant. “Just next time, don’t wait until I’m bleeding to start shooting. I’m tired of fixing this leg.”
A wounded looked passed over Ambrose’s face, but he hid it behind a cheery smile at the many watching faces.
“Ready when you are, big guy,” he called up with forced verve.
Bakbak-Devi nodded and turned to go when two barks of a pistol pierced the stillness of the glade.
The giant spun back with frightening speed for a creature the size of a house, while Ambrose swung Milo around like a ragdoll to shield the magus with his body. The two remaining Georgians toppled over, bullet holes in their heads, as their blood and gray matter woke the standing stone they were standing next to. Percy Astor slowly lowered his pistol, his bandaged hand held up placatingly.
“My sacrifice made, I would also like to be introduced to the marquis,” the American declared in a calm, clear voice before nodding at the smeared bottom of the giant’s foot. “I will also be needing my companion to join me if you would be so kind.”
15
The Audience
With firm strokes of his punting pole, Bakbak-Devi propelled their raft up the languid river and into the deepening beauty of the Lost Vale. The moon crowned the sky, and its silver light danced across the dark pines. Each one seemed plated in the precious metal, argent needles susurrating softly on the wind. Down amongst the trunks, the mist wound and flowed with currents of its own, and upon those ephemeral streams could be seen miniscule shapes flashing and glinting like fireflies in shades of blue, yellow, and green to reveal tiny imitations of horses, serpents, and men, all borne on gossamer wings. Milo spotted stags and leopards moving amongst the mist, breaching the foggy tides like antlered leviathans or golden-eyed whales, barely sparing the humans a look as they went about their nightly business.
Drifting over everything was a sense of wonder as palpable as a haunting melody that was just beyond hearing, yet all this grandeur was wasted on the men on the raft. Seated upon pine stumps, they paid no heed to the enchanted wood unfolding around them, only having time to share suspicious glares.
“I still can’t believe we ain’t shootin’ ‘em both.”
Percy gave a heavy sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose vigorously.
“And that is why you have your job and I have mine,” he said sullenly under his breath before turning to Milo and Ambrose with an apologetic smile. “I’m terribly sorry. I could make excuses for him, but they’d never be sufficient. I’ll have to beg your indulgence a while longer.”
Milo, having been forced to repair his leg with healing unguents with both men looking over his shoulder, was not in the most diplomatic of moods.
“Don’t worry,” Milo replied coolly. “The feeling is mutual.”
Ambrose gave a low grunt of assent.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Percy sighed, raising a hand to tip his hat. “Then I suppose we are better served by fixing our attention on the scenery.”
Milo made a hard thrust with his chin and bared his teeth in a smile to challenge the one the scalp hunter wore.
“You first,” he snarled through the unfriendly grin.
Shaking his head, the American turned his back to them. Ezekiel sat looking askance at Milo and Ambrose, his tongue lapping across his stained, smiling teeth. It was galling and terrifying in equal measure that even after being ground to paste under the ogre’s foot, Ezekiel had recovered in minutes unmarked and unfazed. Milo felt a quiver of uncertainty as he stared into the dark, mirthless eyes.
For all his giggles and grinning, Ezekiel Boucher’s eyes were as cold and soulless as anything Milo had seen in his short, terrible life, and that included the ghuls of Ifreedahm.
“Don’t worry, I still owe you a barkin’, partner,” the cowboy cooed as he reached out to tickle the scalps hanging from his indestructible buckskins. “I haven't forgotten.”
Milo was about to form a retort, but before he could say anything, a pine stump hurtled through the air and took Ezekiel in the chest. The slight man’s chest buckled with a tremendous crack as the hefty disc of wood carried him over the edge of the boat. Percy gave a subdued “Oh, goodness” as he shifted away from the water thrown up by Ezekiel’s exit from the raft, but soon returned to staring out across the Vale.
Milo looked to see Ambrose standing over him, limbs trembling with rage as he spat curses of remarkable poetry and potency in French.
“Thanks,” Milo said, but the big man didn’t seem to hear him.
Bakbak-Devi paused from his punting to dip his pole into the river, while half his faces turned to frown at Ambrose.
“DO NOT DO THAT AGAIN,” the giant instructed, his tone as firm and long-suffering as someone speaking to a particularly willful child. “THE HEXED ONE IS A GUEST OF THE MARQUIS SAME AS YOU, GEHENNA-GET. DO NOT TEST MY MASTER’S HOSPITALITY OR MY PATIENCE FURTHER.”
For a single moment, Ambrose looked as though he would challenge the many-headed ogre, but with a long trembling breath, he let the tension slide from his shoulders. His limbs ceased to quiver, and he gave a slow nod as he bowed his shoulders slightly.
“I understand,” he said solemnly. “My apologies to you and to your master.”
Bakbak-Devi returned the nod and turned a
ll his faces to the river.
“Gehenna-get?” Milo asked softly, eliciting a shrug from Ambrose.
“A new one for me,” the big man confessed, crossing his arms.
Milo frowned as he turned back and noticed Percy watching Ambrose intently, a curious gleam in his eye. It only lasted a second before he turned back to contemplating the river and the forest, but at that moment, a swelling sense of dread plucked warningly across his spine.
Just then, the punting pole emerged from the water with a sodden Ezekiel clinging to the timber. His hair and hat hung down, so he looked one step above a drowning victim, but his smile still stretched from ear to ear.
With his peculiar gentleness, Bakbak-Dovi deposited the cowboy on the raft and proceeded to send them gliding up the river.
“I notice you have no apology for my compatriot,” Mr. Astor stated as he continued watching the vista beyond the boat.
“I most certainly do not,” Ambrose rumbled.
“Oh, that’s all right, Percy.” Ezekiel chuckled as he rose to shake the water from his hat.
He turned to grin at Ambrose.
“Better luck next time, big fella,”
Ambrose grinned back but didn’t budge otherwise.
“It was the smell, sweetie. Didn’t want to spend any more time having to smell you.”
The manse of the marquis sprawled past the water’s edge, a vast estate whose whitewashed walls swept in a wide arc that formed a harbor in the midst of the river. Between these lantern-hung arms stood a dock whose planks were richly engraved with glowing patterns of knots and whorls, all of which seemed to move when Milo wasn’t looking directly at them. The illuminated boards stretched from the dock up to form stairs to a hedgerow gate that led to the manse’s gardens.
“Impressive,” Percy commented, looking up at the giant. “It bears a striking resemblance to Château de Kerjean.”
The many heads nodded.
“THE MARQUIS WOULD BE PLEASED TO HEAR YOU SAY SO,” Bakbak-Devi replied. “HE RENOVATED THE MANOR AFTER VISITING HIS COUSIN IN THE FOREST OF BROCÉLIANDE AND TOURING THE DUCHY.”
Sorcerybound (World's First Wizard Book 2) Page 18