Wizardborn (World's First Wizard Book 3) by Aaron Schneider (classic books for 11 year olds .txt) 📗

a mask of leathery skin, his features blank but with subtle trembles of tension in his neck and arms. Milo knew the look of a man who’d seen enough that he had armored himself within, but the hardening hadn’t come soon enough. He was drowning inside that mental armor as unhealed traumas filled it from within.

Yes, Milo was intimately familiar with that look.

“These are Reds, belonging to one Soviet commander or another.” The guard spat at the center of the tent. “For years, their kind has been ripping through these parts before wandering east to fight the Whites. If we handed them over to the villagers, they wouldn’t be nearly so hospitable.”

Ambrose frowned and glanced at Milo, his consternation unspoken but written on his face.

“How do you know these men did those things?” Milo asked, staring at the men, his mind caught between imagining himself in their position and seeing Commissar Beria’s face on each man.

“They were wearing the same uniform.” The soldier shrugged. “There is little difference between one Slavic rat or another.”

A rumble in Ambrose’s chest rose to challenge the statement, but Milo stilled the oncoming tirade with a raised hand. The guard started to smirk but stopped as he came under the wizard’s piercing stare.

“I doubt you want me to punish you for everything the German Army’s ever done,” Milo remarked icily. “But regardless, I’m going to interrogate these prisoners, and I want them comfortable enough to share information.”

“Captain said we were to keep them like this until he was ready to deal with ‘em,” the soldier growled, unable to hide his clenched jaw as he thrust his chin at the prisoners.

“Are you refusing to comply with my direct order?” Milo asked.

The soldier didn’t respond, only stared at him.

Milo took a second to exhale slowly and keep any heat from his voice. His pale eyes flashed for an instant, but otherwise, there was no sign of his temper.

“The first thing then will be for you to unbind them,” he said evenly, nodding at the prisoners without breaking eye contact. “And do so gently, please. I wouldn’t want to report that information was lost because you damaged them.”

Milo saw the man’s eyes blaze in defiance and something came to his tongue to argue, but he checked himself at the very last second. His mouth clamped shut, and with his teeth grinding furiously, he moved to the first soldier and began to loosen the cords binding his hands.

“Weird, isn’t it?” Ambrose muttered at Milo’s shoulder, his voice pitched for only the two of them. “Lokkemand being friendlier than he’s ever been, and the common soldiers are nastier than they’ve ever been.”

Milo gave his bodyguard a sidelong glance as he watched the second prisoner be unbound. The naked man rubbed his wrists as he cringed on his chair.

“It does seem that things are shifting,” Milo answered softly out the side of his mouth. “And certainly not for the better.”

Ambrose nodded and leaned closer as the last prisoner was being untied.

“I’ve got a feeling that we need to conduct our investigations outside the chain of command.”

Milo listened to the suggestion without making a response. He could see the validity of it, but to accept it put certain things in doubt. After Lokkemand at least made the appearance of burying the hatchet, Milo felt it would seem rather uncooperative to go back to his old habits of sneaking around and working outside the command structure. Also, if things fell apart, as they were wont to do, wouldn’t that point the finger at him again?

And there was still the nagging matter of Jorge’s confidence in Lokkemand. At dinner, it had seemed a simple, reasonable thing to be suspicious of Lokkemand, but now when it came to actions, it was not so simple. Would this be what finally changed Jorge’s mind about his usefulness?

“Anything else, sir?” The German soldier sneered as he shuffled back from the prisoners. His expression was puckered and angry, made all the worse by the strong smell of ammonia now clinging to his boots.

“Where are their clothes?” Milo asked.

An ugly grin came to the man’s face.

“Burned them, sir. Didn’t want anything catching to get around the camp.”

Milo fought the urge to shove his fist a few centimeters through the man’s nose.

“Then I suppose you will have to make yourself busy finding them something to wear,” Milo said, looking at the man imperiously. “And make sure it is warm enough since these men seem a bit chilled.”

The guard’s body clenched as though he was bending his whole frame to keep from saying something. He settled for one snorting breath that might have been “Yes, sir” before he turned on his heel and left the tent. There was a long moment of quiet, the only sound the shivering breaths of the naked prisoners. Though autumn was upon them, it wasn’t that cold in the tent. Milo imagined a good deal of their unsteady respiration was due to fear.

“Don’t be afraid,” Milo began, switching over to Russian. “I’m probably your closest thing to a friend here, and all I want to do is talk. Are you hungry?”

He knew they were after one look at ribs pressing against their skin and the deflated sag of their sunken stomachs. They were starving, but he wanted, no, needed them to engage.

The men blinked and looked at each other before all nodding at once.

Milo nodded at Ambrose, who produced a round loaf of dark bread. With two quick twists, he tore the bread into pieces and stepped forward to hold them out to the three men. As he did so, Milo saw the Gewehr swaying on its strap over Ambrose’s shoulder, and the thought of one of the men lunging for the weapon in desperation became inescapable. Milo doubted any of them possessed the strength, even working together, to pry it from the Nephilim, but in the scuffle, the rifle could go off.

Not liking the possible outcome of a rifle firing blindly in a crowded camp, Milo