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

In fact, upon reflection, he wasn’t certain the opposite wasn’t true—that he had been singularly unlucky, especially of late. It was bad enough he’d been forced to perform that unseemly ritual after Zeke had the temerity to die on him, but then after all his efforts to shepherd the Passenger in its borrowed flesh, it had abandoned him.

“The Kingdom will be served better under their hands than mine,” it had intoned as they’d made their way to the train that was to get him out of goddamned Russia.

“What Kingdom?” Percy had asked, not expecting a coherent answer. “And who are you talking about?”

He’d learned not to expect the un-man to make much sense.

“The Kingdom of Noise,” it had answered as though he were being obtuse. “To which I now return. Thank you, Percy Astor. I will see you soon.”

Then Ezekiel Bouche’s body had collapsed, all animation banished. Percy was still cursing and kicking the ravaged cadaver when they’d come and taken him. It had turned out “they” were Germans dressed as Russian peasants. They’d surrounded him as he was venting his frustration, and they’d seized him, stripped the Package from him, and then escorted him to a waiting truck.

His time since then had been one of regular mistreatment and deprivation, none of which was as distressing to him as the fact that the Passenger had so obviously used him.

He knew it was irrational, but for the hundredth time, he swore an oath that when he escaped, he would drag that same Passenger back into a vessel to express his acute displeasure. He just had to make it through this latest ordeal in one piece.

Several unfeasible ideas rose to mind for escape as he waited so that when he heard the door behind him open, he almost growled for them to leave and give him more time. Was it so much to ask that he have a little time to plan his escape?

There was the rap of hard soles on the floor, coming to stand a stride or two from where Percy sat. The American held very still. The footsteps did not sound familiar, but he’d learned that even shuffling about to look over his shoulder could provoke violent reactions.

He assured himself it was not that he was afraid of their fists or bludgeons, but further battering would compromise his ability to escape.

The newcomer did not speak for some time, but Percy could hear thick parchment pages being turned. He knew what the sound signified.

“I’m told your German is passable,” said a sharp male voice in Percy’s least favorite of the Old World languages. He would have struggled to explain it, but he’d always thought it was a curdled mongrel tongue.

“Passable, yes,” Percy replied, glad the questioner couldn’t see his sour face.

The pages ruffled again, then there was the slap of the leather binding being shut abruptly and a soft clink-click as the brass clasps were rebound on what was perhaps the most dangerous item in the world. It took everything in Percy to keep from looking over his shoulder.

“I hope your last few days have been instructive as to how earnest we are,” the voice said behind him. “If you require further convincing it can be provided, but if this continues, I’m afraid your use to us may be compromised.”

They couldn’t have started by asking? These Old Worlders, for all their pretentious airs, were just as savage as the heathen wandering jungles and deserts.

“I am convinced,” Percy replied steadily. “And I would be more than willing to cooperate if I knew exactly what you wanted.”

Percy reminded himself it was not treachery if it was done to preserve his life. He was no use to anyone if he was dead, no matter which flag they flew.

“This book, these diagrams, symbols, and notes,” the voice said, each word mounting in pressure and intensity. “They are the keys to saving my country and my people from themselves. You will help decipher them to ensure they can be put to use for such a purpose. You will join the tide of history that prepares to carry us to a new and glorious day.”

Percy squirmed in his seat a little, the man’s messianic tone approaching mania.

He’d been afraid that was what would be asked of him, and of his many talents, this arena was the one he least preferred.

“I’m a very talented and useful sort,” he stated matter-of-factly, doing his level best to hide his unease, “but what makes you think I have the slightest idea how to translate what’s in that volume?”

The owner of the voice stalked around to stand alongside Percy, stopping at the edge of his peripheral vision. He made out a man of average aspect standing there not in a black coat, but the uniform of a common soldier of the German Empire. As best Percy could tell, he would have seemed rather an ordinary sight on any battlefield in Europe, yet the way the man talked made it clear he was anything but a typical German soldier.

“Do not toy with me, Mr. Astor,” the man growled, his voice sinking lower yet keeping the same fevered urgency. “The Reich has tolerated your interference thus far because it was inconvenient to do otherwise. Now, though, we have every reason to make you either a valued ally or one more of the voiceless dead. The choice is yours.”

“Well, when you put it like that,” Percy said, trying to sound jocular but only managing to seem wheedling, “when do we begin?”

The man stepped around to stand in front of Percy. He was rather average, though older than a soldier of the line typically would be, with a bit of jowl about the collar. His dark eyes were intent, threatening to pierce him with their stare, while the brows were so sparse that as he glowered, they disappeared into the lines of his face. Perhaps the most peculiar effect was the mustache he wore, which seemed bound within the parallels of his nostrils above, refusing