Sorcerybound (World's First Wizard Book 2) by Aaron Schneider (ready player one ebook .TXT) 📕

this, though, he could easily pick out the details and decorations graven there. Standing in its presence was like standing before a sleeping titan whose foundations rested beyond the ken of time, even though intellectually, both men knew the place couldn’t have been more than five hundred years old.

“What do you think the odds are someone starts shooting us while we stand here?” Ambrose asked, throwing a quick look around the area. “If it was me, I’d also have put a sharpshooter over in that belltower to hit from two different angles.”

Milo eyed the belltower that stood separate from the church, a rounded tower where open archways would project sound and serve as excellent sniper nests.

“That is assuming these are a batch of militant priests stockpiling for some ill-fated crusade,” Milo said as he silently told himself to stop searching the belltower for the glint of sunlight on a scope. “Not a bunch of surly old hermits using the religion as an excuse to hide from a world that’s never done anyone any favors.”

Ambrose clucked his tongue and gave his head a wag.

“I’ll admit that mine sounds paranoid,” he said, shuffling behind the cover of the Rollsy’s armored hood. “Yet somehow yours is even sadder.”

Milo shrugged and defiantly stayed where he was, scuffing a boot against a paving stone.

“It’s a gift,” he muttered and looked up as he heard the groan of the church doors swinging open.

“What, being wrong?” Ambrose grunted as he nodded at the deacon, who was returning with another man in black, both carrying rifles.

Milo planted the cane in front of him and controlled the urge to lash out in waves of crackling green fire. He imagined that if the men had intended to shoot him, they would have done so from the cover of the door. This was a show of force, demonstrating that they were armed and weren’t afraid to use those weapons on soldiers if need be. At least that was the show they were putting on.

Milo put on his best ingratiating smile and held up his hands in a slow, easy manner.

“Good deacon, there is no need for—”

The ox-shouldered deacon’s rifle thundered, and Milo winced as he heard the shot zip over his head.

Milo realized that perhaps this wasn’t as much of a show as a demonstration.

“How do you know of the marquis?” the deacon growled as he chambered another round.

Milo looked at the two men, searching for how to explain.

The other man in black was slighter, taller, and older, with a gray beard on a face that seemed graven in stone. A look into his flinty black eyes told Milo that one wrong move and he wouldn’t be firing warning shots. Surreptitiously following the man’s aim, Milo could tell the man’s rifle was trained on Ambrose on the other side of the Rollsy. Milo didn’t doubt his bodyguard was hunkered down with his own rifle trained over Milo’s shoulder. As unyielding as the men seemed, Milo didn’t doubt Ambrose could drop both of them in short order.

The only problem was, Milo was between them and thus lethally exposed.

“A friend of mine, the contessa. Remember?” Milo asked, his words coming out slowly because he wanted to keep his voice from shaking. “She is hurt and needs help. She sent me to find the marquis here. That’s truly all I know.”

The priests shared a look, and Milo got the feeling his life hung in the balance. Then the older man nodded, and Milo was convinced he saw them relax slightly, even though neither man lowered their weapon.

“This contessa. She is not like other women, then?” the black-bearded deacon asked, giving Milo a measured look.

Milo nodded emphatically and forced a smile.

“Not unless other women can ride the wind or disappear with the snap of the fingers,” he said with a forced laugh.

Again, the two men shared a quick look, and to Milo’s immense relief, they lowered their rifles to rest across their bodies.

“You may enter and talk to the priest,” the elder deacon said in a raw, watery voice. “But you will not bring weapons into the church.”

Milo looked over his shoulder at Ambrose for the first time and saw that the big man still had his rifle trained on the men.

“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