Sorcerybound (World's First Wizard Book 2) by Aaron Schneider (best color ereader .TXT) 📗

curtly. “See him put in good order and soon because we’ll need him fighting fit when the time comes.”

Milo turned to argue but Ambrose didn’t give him an option, driving him onward like a small boat before a massive wave.

“What’s that, Magus?” the big man called in a booming voice as he raised a free hand to his ear. “Sorry, I can’t hear you over the sound of your growling stomach.”

“Just what the hell was that?” Milo asked, forcing down another mouthful of seasoned lamb before taking an embarrassingly large bite from a slice of black bread.

It wasn’t the fatted calf, but it seemed Ambrose had somehow encouraged the quartermaster to provide a veritable feast for the recovering magus.

Ambrose had quickly ushered Milo down to the mess hall on the ground floor and placed him at the waiting table where a large lump of goat cheese and a whole loaf of black bread sat. After he needlessly instructed Milo to eat, Ambrose had vanished for a moment, before returning with enough lamb to put even the magus’ ravenous appetite to bed.

His hunger roused to an unbearable intensity by the sudden profusion of edibles, he’d stuffed himself for several minutes before he had the presence of mind to remember he was angry at both his bodyguard and the captain.

In fact, the bewildering idea that both seemed dead-set against his sound advice had been so bemusing, he’d needed a few more minutes and several more mouthfuls to compose his thoughts.

“Since when do you take up with Lokkemand?”

Ambrose, standing on the opposite side of the table with a jug of water and a cup he was filling, looked almost offended.

“Take up with?” he asked, slapping the cup down and sliding it to Milo, sloshing water on the table. “I wouldn’t call it that. More like keeping a tired and naïve man from making a fool of himself. Lokkemand was inconsequential in that equation.”

“Naïve?” Milo said after washing down his last bite with a slug of water. “What in all our time makes you think I’m naïve?”

Ambrose scowled as one of his eyebrows cocked up.

“You know, it is exhausting, trying to find ways not to believe you are just stupid.”

Milo choked on a hunk of bread and cheese as much as the insult, coughing and hacking for a bit before he could retort.

“I’m stupid?” he croaked, jabbing his chest for emphasis, forgetting he still had a greasy hunk of lamb in his hand. “I’m not the one letting enemy forces get away with valuable intelligence and friendly remains. That’s Lokkemand, remember?”

“Take a drink already,” Ambrose growled irritably as he bent and refilled Milo’s glass, his brow knitted in thought. “You sound awful.”

“Must be from all the time spent with you,” Milo quipped as he raised his cup to comply. “All that smoking and carousing. You're a bad influence on the younger —much younger—generation.”

Admittedly, it wasn’t his sharpest bit of humor, but in the realm of friendship, the laughs and barbs flow easily, so it was unsettling to Milo when he realized that neither chuckling nor a stinging retort was quick in coming. Milo looked up from his drink to see Ambrose staring at him, brow bunched as it had been in Lokkemand’s office earlier.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said on the balcony,” Ambrose said, slowly at first but warming to his point quickly. “You said I had something to offer you still. I’m beginning to believe that you might be right, but it’s nothing to do with fighting. Rather, I think it has more to do with imparting wisdom and insight that you as a young man don’t have.”

Milo stared at Ambrose, then carefully placed a hunk of meat back in the bowl and licked the grease from his fingers. He pushed the plate of cheese and bread away next and set his elbows on the table, fingers intertwined in front of him. Ambrose watched it all in silence, his expression unreadable.

“All right then,” Milo said in a dangerously soft tone. “Tell me. I’m listening.”

Ambrose looked unsure, but he shook off the anxiousness like a bear shaking water from its pelt as he set the jug down. His pawlike hands settled on the table as his head slung forward between his expansive shoulders so he and Milo were nearly eye to eye.

“You’re scared,” he rumbled. “Worse, you're too scared to admit you're scared.”

Milo met his gaze, felt the pressure building between them, then slowly and deliberately picked up his cup without letting his eyes wander.

“Do tell,” he replied frostily before taking a small sip of water. “What am I afraid of?”

He wanted to lash out, but he knew that would confirm to his bodyguard that he was unstable because of his supposed fear.

“You’re afraid you aren’t the only wizard,” Ambrose said, refusing to look anywhere except directly into Milo’s eyes. “You’re scared there are others, and that means you might be the lesser wizard, the inferior one.”

Milo felt the urge to look away and squirm just a little.

“Doesn’t the idea of another wizard, one working for the enemy, concern you?” Milo asked smoothly to cover the internal shifting he felt. He told himself he had to keep being rational, and everyone would follow suit eventually.

“Concern, maybe,” Ambrose admitted with a slow bob of his head. “But not so much that I’m going to deny what is right in front of my face.”

Milo couldn’t keep a short, sharp laugh from cutting between his teeth.

“Oh, really?” he said, chuckling without a hint of humor. “And what is right in front of me?”

“The threat isn’t over,” Ambrose said, each word coming slow and heavy from his lips. “The Americans weren’t the ones Jorge was worried about, and we need to think about what that means for you, for the operation, and for Rihyani.”

Milo felt something hot and angry building in his chest.

“What do you mean, for Rihyani?”

Ambrose wasn’t quick to answer, the anxiousness creeping back into his eyes as he rose from where he