Wizardborn (World's First Wizard Book 3) by Aaron Schneider (read me like a book txt) 📕

A low growl echoed through the forest, as wet as a torn throat and echoing from a depth somewhere under the Styx. Every instinct in Milo urged him to run, but his fingers tightened around the cane until his knuckles popped and his palms throbbed.

“YOU ARE BRAVER THAN MOST,” howled a voice that belonged in a nightmare. “AND THAT IS THE ONLY REASON I WILL EXCUSE THE INSOLENCE OF THAT NAME THIS ONCE.”

Between the trees, Milo saw huge red eyes advancing. The huge creature paused, and he received the impression of something vaguely lupine standing in the unnatural shadows. A snout beneath the glowing eyes parted to speak, and Milo saw the glint of fangs as long as his hand.

“I have many names, whispered with fear through ages by heroes and gods. I am the one your kind feared as they huddled around stolen fire and he who you still worship with your walls and torches.”

Milo swallowed heavily but then heard a faint rustle at his feet.

He stole a glance downward, hoping it just looked like he was losing his nerve, and he smiled to see the tiny filaments of black grit coiling at his heels. The si’lat had found him. His shoulders squared and his heart steadied.

“I’m going to need to know what to call you,” Milo said as he prepared his mental focus to unleash his summoned weapon. “Do you have a shorter name or title?”

The monster within the dark pressed forward until its huge head breached the shadows. Jaws that could have snapped him in half hung open so he could count each tooth that could have ended his life. Milo wasn’t sure that this thing looked like a wolf so much as a terrifying impression of what a wolf might look like in Hell.

“Borjikhan shall do, little monkey,” it rumbled. “I had Lempo bring you here that you may bear my will to your kind.”

“I’m squarely on the tall side for my kind,” Milo shot back as he felt the bulk of the si’lat swarm settle across the ground around him. “But if you’ve got something to say, I’m listening.”

Borjikhan sniffed the air and narrowed its red eyes at Milo, clearly sensing the change in him. Its lips curled back from the fangs in a smile that beamed with a sadist’s joy.

“If any of your kind comes to these hovels or to the woods beyond,” it began, the words resounding less from its throat than its vast chest, “the lives of every human in a hundred miles will be forfeit. These lands now belong to the Hiisi of the first wood, and we will brook no challenge.”

Milo felt Imrah seethe within the fetish in his hands and remembered her words about Zlydzen’s connection with the Hiisi of the First Wood. Given that the monstrous creature was issuing a warning rather than killing him, it seemed likely it hadn’t been briefed on him by the dwarrow. Milo had a hard time believing that there wouldn’t be a standing order to mangle his person on sight.

“What happened to the people of Gzhatsk?” Milo asked.

A thick chuckle bubbled from the monster.

“Set foot in that mausoleum, and you’ll soon find out.”

From somewhere behind Milo, a distant but familiar voice bellowed between the trees.

“MAGUS!” Ambrose shouted. “MAGUS!”

Borjikhan snarled, and even with the si’lat secretly arrayed around him, Milo felt like his knees gave out.

“Perhaps an object lesson will impress upon you the severity of this command.”

One huge paw reached out from the shadows, revealing black fur that smoked with shadows as claws like sickles sank into the loamy earth.

“MAGUS!” Ambrose hollered again, his voice closer and ragged with desperation. “MILO!”

Wrath, righteous and blazing, blossomed in Milo’s chest and rushed through his veins like liquid fire. The air brushing his skin felt cold, but only because of the heat of his anger. This beast bragged about its mass murder and then decided to maim and kill Milo’s friend to make its point. His anger increased to a deep and terrible rage.

“How dare you?” Milo snarled as the si’lat rose around him in curling tendrils.

The wizard’s mind commanded the si’lat at his feet, not with the precise instructions, but with a raw instinct that set the bound shades to quivering. The black coils wrapped around Milo and drew him upward even as more of it rose around him. The coils lengthened and stretched until they were vast black wings whose wicked points could have gripped a tank end to end with ease.

Borjikhan snapped his jaws with a force that sounded like a thunderclap, and spittle flew from its fangs as it hissed, “My patience wears thin, little man.”

Milo’s voice, amplified to shake the heavens by the Art, drowned out the coming threat.

“You’ve had your say, now I’ll have mine!” Milo thundered. “You may be an ancient horror with names and stories stretching back into forever, but let me tell you who I am.”

The pinions became black lances, plunging in front of Borjikhan and driving it back between the trees as the magus advanced, glaring furiously.

“I am Milo Petrovich, Magus, Slayer of Demons, Crusher of Tyrants!” he declared, his chest swelling as though ready to split with the power of the words. “Orphan and Prince, I was oppressed so I would crush oppressors, and if you ever think to threaten me or mine again, all your names and all your stories will be forgotten. Your tale will become that of one more monster I defeated!”

The si’lat, driven by the fire in his blood, ripped across the tree trunks, sending the lupine terror bounding back in a hail of smoldering splinters.

“You’ve made your threats, and I’ve made my promises,” Milo growled, looking down his nose at the red eyes glaring up at him. “Now retreat to your den, lick your wounded pride, and hope we never meet again.”

For a moment, Milo thought it would attack, but Borjikhan gave an unconvincing snort of derision and snapped its jaws one more time.

“I