Witchmarked (World's First Wizard Book 1) by Aaron Schneider (namjoon book recommendations txt) 📗

the sound of the rifle’s discharge, Milo had never been so happy to hear someone calling to him from the dark. The glowing feeling vanished quickly, however, when he remembered that the fey were in his company. When they’d set out, they’d planned to explain the two disguised ghuls, now one, as local guides hired to help them reach Bamyan after they were separated from the 33rd. Explaining how they had also acquired three glowing beings, one who stood nearly three meters tall, was something else entirely.

He supposed they were lucky the soldiers hadn’t shot them on sight.

“We’re German,” Milo called, raising his hands over his head. “We’re German, don’t shoot.”

He was pleased to see that Imrah and Ambrose were following his lead. He wouldn’t have been surprised, but he would have been irritated if one of them was shot.

Milo was surprised that when he looked around for the fey, they were nowhere to be seen. For a brief second, his mind revolted against the idea that towering, glowing beings could simply vanish, and he questioned if his memories of the fey were real or just figments of his imagination. He felt a dull pressure in the back of his mind to accept this conclusion, the suggestion so subtle he might not have noticed it if he hadn’t spent the last several days experiencing the various wiles of supernaturals. He hadn’t been formally introduced to fey magic, but he was fairly certain he was experiencing his first brush with it.

“Get down on your knees,” a voice from the dark demanded.

Milo had almost sunk down to one knee when Ambrose whispered to him hoarsely.

“You’re a Blackcoat, Magus.”

Facing God knew how many hidden guns, Milo didn’t much feel like the looming specter of authority, especially not in his current shabby state, but Ambrose had a point. If he wanted to be taken seriously, he’d better act the part.

Milo straightened and very slowly lowered his arms, tucking the cane like a swagger stick under his arm, just like he’d seen Blackcoat bigwigs do.

“Who’s in charge here?” Milo bawled, thankful the long coat hid his trembling legs.

“Get down on your knees now!” the voice roared back.

“Are you blind or just stupid?” Milo snarled, gesturing first at his coat and then at his cap. “I hope to God and the Kaiser that you know what you’re doing, mein Kamerad.”

The silence stretched, soft wind whistling between the gap-toothed stones.

Milo, holding as still as possible, let his eyes rove the ruin, and as the seconds stretched, he began to pick out the shapes of men hunkered among the stones. Their position, as far as he could tell, was exceptional. They’d located themselves among the ruined buildings and dilapidated wall so that they covered the approach from the rear of the crumbling citadel with intersecting lines of fire at various elevations. With this layering, there seemed no risk of crossfire, and any direct advancement to any of the forward-most positions invited multiple angles of attack.

Milo was willing to bet several valuable body parts these were Federated troops, which was both good and bad. Good in that they were less likely to shoot him but bad in that if they did start shooting, they were unlikely to miss.

“Identify yourself!” demanded a different voice farther back in the defensive formation. It was rougher and thinner, as though worn to fibers from a lifetime of shouting. Milo knew a career non-commissioned officer when he heard one.

Straightening a little more, Milo raised his voice to reach to the back of the formation.

“Milo Volkohne, Nicht-KAT,” he called sharply. “Returning with a report for Captain Lokkemand.”

Milo thought he heard a murmur among the stones, and it didn’t sound friendly. Keeping his spine ramrod-straight, he stared toward where the voice had come from, hoping the answer wasn’t a storm of bullets.

“Captain Lokkemand came in attached to the 41st,” the gruff voice called back. “Why weren’t you with those East Prussian boys when they came in.”

Milo knew he was being tested, but the specifics of how to respond gave him pause. They’d all been with the 33rd, who were also East Prussians, but what if after the attack and Milo’s disappearance, the captain had moved to another regiment?

“When I was with Lokkemand, he was attached to the 33rd,” Milo said, deciding to stick as close to the truth as he could. “If he was reassigned to the 41st, this is the first I’m hearing of it.”

More silence, but no bullets. That, to Milo’s mind, was winning.

“So, you got sent off on some gruselig operation then?” the voice asked, the voice as neutral as its gravelly nature permitted.

“Nothing so clandestine,” Milo lied, thankful for years of practice. “I was taken from the 33rd in a night raid, but I escaped, and I’ve been making my way back to my commanding officer.”

There was the scuff of boots on the dusty stones, and a soft click as a harness or belt buckle struck stone.

“Who are these ragged people with you?”

Milo compelled his lips not to smile. They were through. Unless Milo or one of his companions did something incredibly stupid, they were going to be taken back to camp. Then it was only a matter of time before the grinding wheels of military protocol dragged him to Lokkemand.

“The man in disarray is my personal aide,” Milo explained, nodding at Ambrose before gesturing at Imrah. “The woman is a local who offered to be our guide when we escaped. I promised her a reward for helping us get back safely.”

The silence stretched again, but it was different somehow, more pensive. Finally, out of the doorway of a nearly intact three-story ruin came a slight man in a dark Federated uniform. He had a pistol in his hand, but it was pointed down as he walked across the cracked but venerable cobbles of Shahr-e Zuhak. Dark eyes glittered in long, lupine features as he stepped into a bright patch of moonlight. He surveyed the ragged remains of the company, then his