Witchmarked (World's First Wizard Book 1) by Aaron Schneider (my reading book .txt) 📕

“Where’s your pistol?” Ambrose huffed, keeping one eye on the floundering beast that had just realized Ambrose was not on its back.

Milo shrugged, then held up the skull lamp.

“And?” Ambrose asked, cocking an eyebrow as he started to tug off the coat. “What’s that going to do?”

Milo smiled hungrily, and the big man gave him a sidelong glance before nodding at the huge ghul that was struggling to its feet.

“Watch and learn,” Milo instructed. He stepped toward the ogre ghul, quietly and desperately hoping he wasn’t being fatally arrogant.

The vibrations within the skull were even more strained than before, but Milo believed, or at least very badly wanted to, that it would be enough. Besides, the creature was bleeding profusely, and supporting itself on tree-trunk legs, its whole body trembled.

“Surrender or die,” Milo called as he stood his ground, the horned lamp held out before him.

The ghul growled something deep in its chest, punching down with one huge fist to shiver the floor in front of it. As chips of stone flew out, Milo suddenly felt far less confident. One blow like that could take his head clean off or ram his sternum into his spine. The skull suddenly felt heavy and yet was so small, a lead weight that he’d been foolish enough to jump into deep waters with. Now he was in over his head.

Command! Milo screamed inside his head. Will it so, or you will be dead!

He saw the immense muscles bunching across the ghul’s legs, back, and shoulders and knew this was it. Digging deep into every pain, injustice, and fear that had shaped him, Milo gripped the skull tight, snarling through the pain from his broken finger. Teeth bared, he gathered breath along with his will as the brute launched its charge.

“BURN!” Milo howled, and to his relief, the skull replied.

Once again, jets of verdant flame shot forth, climbing the huge creature. Pits began to gape across its massive frame as the flames gnawed down to the bone. It was horrible to see, but even more awful because it was getting closer to him. Although it was bleeding from a dozen wounds and swaddled in ravaging flames, the ogre came on, its arms raised, huge fingers curled into claws

Realizing too late that his magic hadn’t stopped the creature, Milo barely had enough time to scramble back before flaming paws got hold of him. Talons scored the stone where Milo had stood, but the beast would not be deterred, even as it sank to one knee. One side of its eyeless face had kindled, the flesh running like wax or curling in on itself, but on it came, snarling and bellowing as its blood smoked and sizzled.

Milo tried to reorder his thoughts, fighting to command the skull, but the reagents within were spent, nothing more than a few stray fragments rattling around within.

The beast lunged again. Milo evaded the swipe by falling backward, but the dying brute loomed over him. The skull had fallen from his failing grip to split open with a crack on the stone floor. The ghul reared back for the final stroke.

The Gewehr spoke in its bellicose voice, once, twice, thrice, each bringing a fresh jet of sizzling blood.

The beast’s furious expression went slack and its arm fell as its jaw hung loose, then it toppled forward. With a crablike skitter, Milo barely managed to avoid being trapped under the burning giant as it collapsed. The beast lay still as the flames continued to feast.

The Contest of Abjuration was over.

“You might be a proper witch after all,” Ambrose called over the charring corpse, tucking his rifle under his arm like a safari hunter after the big kill. “But maybe we ought to leave the killing to the professionals, eh?”

Milo snorted and jerked his thumb toward the corpse and the ashes of his two ghuls.

“Unless we’re going by weight,” he replied with an outthrust chin. “I think I’ve got you beat two to one.”

Ambrose put a hand on his hip and opened his mouth to argue, then gave an equine splutter.

“Fine, fine,” he said, stepping clear of the burning corpse to stand at Milo’s side. “First round goes to you, Magus, but remember that I’m just a consort now. I’m working from a handicap.”

“Excuses, excuses.” Milo chuckled.

“Well,” Bashlek Marid burbled as he spread his claws expansively, “who can doubt you now, good Magus?”

There was a rustling reply from the gathered court that sounded more like surrender than acceptance, but Milo would take it all the same. He just wanted to sit down and get his finger tended to. It was swollen to twice its size, and the throbbing was miserably distracting.

“You really don’t expect me to believe you have had no instruction in our ways?”

Milo squeezed his eyes together tightly, then forced them open wide, trying to keep his focus.

“I,” he began, then paused to steady himself, hollow weariness weighing down his body. “Uh, that is, I have had no instruction apart from what your daughter Imrah gave me.”

The chorus of evil whispers that sprang up was nearly deafening, and combined with the pounding that raced from his hand to his head, Milo wobbled. Ambrose’s strong hand slid under Milo’s arm to prop him up.

“Steady,” the bodyguard murmured.

Marid noticed but said nothing. He was still reclining on his throne, stroking his crimson stole thoughtfully as though it were a favorite pet. He seemed to be in no hurry.

Milo wondered if he was supposed to say something, maybe offer further explanation or a self-deprecating remark. He knew he couldn’t explain further because his success had only been a matter of Fazihr’s and Imrah’s limited instruction and some intuitive leaps. He supposed he could just go with self-deprecation, but the pulsing ache in his hand seemed to have spread to his whole body like a fever, and his thoughts were turning soft and sluggish. He was afraid that in a few seconds, the only thing keeping him