And yet, as they stood waiting for the colonel, Milo knew he was the one of importance. Jorge would of course give Lokkemand his due respect, especially on arrival, but no one was under any illusion as to why he’d come this far afield.
In a perverse inversion of all expectations, it was not to soldiers that the German Empire was turning for victory in this unending war.
Looking at Lokkemand standing there, most certainly aware of this fact, gave Milo a new appreciation for the man’s struggle and no small amount of sympathy. No wonder Lokkemand turned to drink so often; the very foundations of his life and identity were being eroded in service to his nation. He may still have been a haughty ass with a penchant for drink, but Milo couldn’t find it in himself to dislike him quite as much anymore.
The first truck rolled into the courtyard, cracking a few of the venerable stones under its weight. A squad of soldiers in matte-black uniforms scrambled out, forming a mirror formation to Lokkemand’s men that waited for the second truck to deliver their ward and master. A sergeant with a face like old boot leather watched over the honor guard with a flinty stare that trailed over Lokkemand’s unmoving retinue before resting on Milo.
Milo stared back until the sergeant turned to watch the second truck come to a stop.
Despite his defiant gaze, Milo found his hands starting to fiddle with the hair jutting from the back of his cap. Ambrose had promised to cut it, but Jorge had arrived before the bodyguard had gotten around to it. Milo hadn't thought anything of it before, but now, standing only a few paces from Lokkemand and the sergeant’s scrutiny, he felt keenly aware of his less than immaculate appearance.
“Quit fiddling,” Ambrose muttered softly under his breath.
The back ramp to the second truck opened, and Milo forced his hands to fall straight to his sides.
“Attention!” bawled the sergeant as Colonel Jorge made his unhurried way down the ramp. Everyone in the courtyard, even Ambrose, straightened and saluted as the slight, slow man came to stand on the cobbles.
His worry-worn face was browned by the sun, but other than that, he seemed very much the same man who had talked to Milo in Poland all those months before. He moved with the same senile gait, despite seeming to be a trim man in his late fifties, and his eyes still pierced through everything that fell under his gaze.
“At ease,” he said with a smile as soon as he reached the end of the ramp. “No need to stand quivering as a cripple drags himself about.”
It was clearly a joke, but none had the heart to laugh.
Milo never knew why Jorge moved like he did, but climbing as high as he had in the Army was evidence he hadn’t always been this way. Jorge seemed determined to make light of his impairment, but no one else had the heart to.
Jorge saw this yet seemed unperturbed by it.
“So,” he said as he shuffled slowly toward Lokkemand, “I hear you have had a few local entanglements since the thaw. I’m glad to hear you were able to manage them handily, Captain.”
Milo noticed Lokkemand grimace for an instant as he forced his eyes to dart toward the magus.
“Yes, sir,” he replied smartly. “I understand that funds are scarce, but it seemed the best way to resolve the situation without further conflict, sir.”
“When I compliment you, there’s no need to give explanations, Captain,” Jorge said with a chuckle. “I trust your judgment; otherwise, I wouldn’t have given you this assignment.”
He then turned slowly toward Milo, his gray speckled brows bunching.
“And speaking of the assignment,” Jorge intoned dourly, “it seems I have something important to ask him?”
“Only one, sir?” Milo asked, unable to help himself.
Jorge’s eyes twinkled sharply, and a sharp smile cut across his face.
“Just the one.”
3
The Question
Milo led Jorge up to his study in the western wing of the complex, suddenly eager to display his efforts to the colonel. He told himself it was because he wanted to show that the trickle of magical items he’d sent to Nicht-KAT since being stuck in Georgia was the result of great efforts, but he knew the truth.
He was doing whatever he could to avoid having to discuss the “something important.”
Jorge seemed content to humor him, listening as he explained the intricacies of crafting a soul-well.
“Once the ingredients are measured to the correct proportions and you’ve located a point of proper resonance, resonance again being a sign that essence is pooling, which means shades, you activate the ingredients by mental effort.”
Milo scooped up one of his most recently expended soul wells, a small triptych of feline bones lashed together with hair from a pregnant mare’s mane.
“Once activated, the soul-well acts as negative space, a sort of low point or void,” he explained, holding out the fetish to the colonel. “Just like water filling a fresh hole in the bottom of a river or lake, the essence rushes in and with it shades, which are kind of like fish caught in the current. The trick is to make sure to keep the shades there and not let them attack you in the process.”
Jorge nodded as he gingerly took the used soul-well in his trembling hands.
“So, how do you accomplish that?” Jorge asked obligingly.
Milo nodded at a trio of earthen bowls on the table. The bowls were unglazed, their interiors blackened with layers of soot.
“Typical with a warding elixir that burns to form a layer of protection,” Milo said, tapping each of the bowls with his finger. “At least that is the way they used to do it, but thanks to implementing my own essence, remembering the blood magic, I can construct internal wards.”
The colonel inspected the triptych with a look of mild approval on his face.
“So, that is why you are letting me touch this bare-handed?” he asked with a cocked eyebrow and a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.
“No, oh, no,” Milo said quickly, shaking his head so hard he thought he might become dizzy. “That is a used soul-well. Its shades were already expended, and in fact, the last shade went into the skin-coat you had me make a month or so ago.”
Milo's stomach twisted as he watched Jorge’s smile vanish. It was like winter claiming a lake, a chill creeping in until there was nothing except a cold, hard expression. Milo knew the truth, but as he tried to force the words out, he found his tongue rebelling.
“The fetish, that is, the skin-coat…something went wrong?”
Jorge placed the defunct soul-well down on the desk, and without a word, shuffled over to Milo’s desk chair. Milo quickly and with a few muttered apologies got out of the way and stood waiting as the colonel eased himself into the stiff wooden chair.
Milo fought back the urge to make excuses or justifications.
He’d told Lokkemand, and by extension Jorge, all the reasons why just handing magical creations to German soldiers or operatives wouldn’t work, but they’d insisted that Milo’s function was to help them win the war. Saying this was the reason for his addictive binging on nightwatch would be a half-truth, but it was part of it. Yet, making excuses to Jorge now, with his eyes ready to pierce him to the marrow, seemed incredibly stupid.
The colonel had heard his protests, his complaints. Repeating them wouldn’t change anything.
“The skin-coat allowed the operation to be completed flawlessly, especially in conjunction with the healing unguent you provided two months ago,” Jorge said very slowly, his eyes never leaving Milo’s face. “However, future use of skin-coats for infiltration is suspended indefinitely.”
Milo forcibly swallowed the “Why?” before his mouth opened, deciding to nod instead.
Jorge steepled his fingers to tap his chin, clearly in no hurry. When Milo made no further response, the colonel bobbed his head in appreciation and continued.
“The agent who was using the skin-coat was very nearly killed when he tried to remove it,” Jorge explained, his voice as even and steady as a man r
eading a routine expense report. “It appears that the shade you bound to it had different ideas.”
Milo felt himself deflate but fought to keep his composure, spine straight, eyes forward, maybe a little bit like Lokkemand.
“So, the healing unguent saved him,” Milo said pensively. “That’s something, at least.”
Jorge looked up sharply, then slowly nodded.
“No, the unguent was used to inflict a tumorous growth on the man he was imitating,” Jorge corrected with a frown. “We couldn’t have the man going around undoing what the agent had done. The growth put the man in the hospital, and he was unable to ascertain the changes he made.”
Milo stared, feeling an off-beat rhythm in his chest at the thought of his attempt at healing being used to critically poison a man, even if he was technically his enemy.
“They tried the unguent on a minor hand wound, and the man’s hand swelled horribly,” Jorge explained, pre-empting Milo’s question about how they knew the unguent would do such dastardly work. “The man’s wound closed, but excising the excess tissue required additional surgery. Not exactly the miracle we’d hoped.”
Milo nodded, swallowing hard but still maintaining his decorum. Months of work fit for the latrine or worse.
“Well then,” Milo said, not allowing his voice to tremble, “I suppose we should get to the question you wanted to ask me, sir.”
Jorge nodded, the measured rise and fall of his chin signaling he’d been waiting for Milo to make the invitation.
“What am I going to do with you, Milo?”
The words hung in the air, and in the stillness, Jorge produced his cigarette tin.
Without a word, Jorge offered Milo one, then took one himself. The colonel began to probe his pockets for matches, but Milo waved off the search. His hand dipped inside his coat and emerged one thumb smeared in red. With a snap, the resin sprouted a blue flame Milo used to light the colonel’s tobacco and then his own.
Another snap and Milo’s thumb was free of flame, with only a small patina of ash left in testimony.
“Quite the trick.” Jorge sniffed before drawing deeply and letting a slow stream of smoke slide between his lips. “That was blood on your thumb, wasn’t it?”
Milo nodded as he held the first lungful of smoke for one second of searing savor.
“Razor stitched into the lining of your coat?” Jorge asked, rolling the cigarette between his fingers.
Milo nodded again.
“Old habits die hard.” Milo sighed into a blue-gray cloud.
A short chuckle and a crooked smile on Jorge’s face, and the two lapsed into soft, burning exhalations.
The silence deepened, and Milo let his chin drift toward his chest as he leaned against a table across from his desk. Curls of smoke wound out of his nostrils as he contemplated the floor and the yawning future.
“I told Lokkemand it wasn’t going to work,” Milo said at last without looking up. “I can keep trying, but there is a reason I’m the first wizard. No other human can do what I do.”
Jorge’s eyes penetrated the streams of tobacco smoke as he studied Milo’s bowed head.
“No, they can’t,” the colonel agreed.
“You either need something to activate the essence, or you need activated essence in the form of a shade,” Milo continued. “If a person could activate the essence, they’d be a wizard, and a shade can only be controlled by a wizard.”
Jorge took an empty glass and tapped his ash. “So, it either doesn’t work, or it has a mind of its own,” he said, a hint of weariness in his voice. “Neither of which are acceptable for military purposes.”
“Or any other purpose.” Milo chuckled wryly as he raised his head and stared at the cigarette in his hand. “I could give you matches that don’t work, or ones that might cook the man carrying them. As I told Lokkemand, it won’t work.”
Jorge stroked his chin, eyes narrowing as he watched the insistent magus.
“I think you are far too hard on the dear captain,” Jorge observed, his head sliding to one side as he continued to scrutinize Milo. “But that doesn’t answer my question.”
“What to do with a useless wizard?” Milo asked with a cocked eyebrow.
“Don’t be dramatic,” Jorge chided as he dropped the butt into the glass. “And don’t pretend you don’t have something in mind. Chafe under Lokkemand all you want, but the man’s reports to me are always thorough.”
Milo’s mind raced back to all those heated conversations with Lokkemand. The shouting and cursing as he demanded to launch an operation against the Guardians, while Lokkemand insisted their orders were to stay put and for Milo to play eldritch tinker. More than once, Milo had threatened to head off on his own, and Lokkemand had made it clear he would put a bullet in Milo’s head if he did. Milo’s first time sneaking out had been a test for running off, but the nightwatch and his lack of focus had seen him gathering ingredients for another experiment. Milo had still harbored, out of spite if nothing else, a hope that he’d get a chance to help the Shepherds and hunt down more Questors.
Especially with his secret project having gained crucial ground.
Milo eyed the colonel warily.
“Are you suggesting what I think you are suggesting?” he asked as he stepped to the desk to deposit the remains of his cigarette in the glass.
“That depends,” the colonel said, drawing out the tin and fetching another cigarette.
Milo noticed the case remained open, but Jorge hadn’t offered yet.
“Depends on what?”
“Depends if you understand what is at stake,” Jorge said, cigarette case between them. “Snarl about Lokkemand all you want, but he’s not the real enemy.”
“I know who my enemies are,” Milo said, a defiant edge sharpening his tone. “That’s what we are talking about, aren’t we?”
Jorge pulled the tin into his lap, his thumb fiddling with the lid.
“That’s not precisely what I am talking about,” the older man said with forced patience. “You’d best listen carefully.”
Milo noted the warning in the colonel’s voice, and, checking his temper, he nodded and slid back to lean against the table again.
“Yes, sir.”
Jorge stared at him long enough to make Milo feel a tickle of discomfort before raising the hand holding his unlit cigarette. Milo, huffing an impatient sigh as he rose, nicked his thumb and lit the tobacco with a snap.
“Thank you,” Jorge said softly as Milo resumed his position against the table.
Jorge took a single bracing toke, then positioned the glowing tip over the glass.
“What I’m talking about is the General Staff,” Jorge said, the words coming with a weighty sigh. “The old eagles are finding themselves coming under more and more pressure, and as they do, they are going to squeeze anything they think might keep them in control. Which means the pressure from above is close to crushing everything we could achieve.”
Milo frowned, the treasonous implication of the words settling like a weight across his shoulders.
“The General Staff is our enemy?” he asked, fighting the urge to check the shadows.
“Those blundering old warhorses?” Jorge said with a bite to his words that never touched his placid expression. “No, their behavior is a symptom, not the disease.”
Milo felt the burden lighten a little. He had no love for the German Empire in general and the General Staff in particular, being a forced conscript under threat of being dissected. Still, he was technically part of the German Army, and being inducted into a war with its entrenched hierarchy compromised at the highest level seemed unwise. Even more so considering the threat of the Guardians.
“So, we are talking about whatever has them under the gun,” Milo said. “And I’m assuming it’s not just the decades-long war effort.”
“You are correct in your assumption,” Jorge said, the barest hint of approval in his voice.
Milo nodded, then chewed his lip for a second
. Lokkemand’s sweaty, flushed face loomed in his memory, and Milo remembered a conversation in Afghanistan about changes within the German Army, with men even being willing to defy their orders for charismatic leaders.
“Ritter von Epp,” Milo murmured with a low growl. “Him and his cronies?”
The memory of Lokkemand’s drunken rant about those within the Army longing to remove “impure elements” from among them heated Milo’s blood even as it sent sharp spikes of fear up his spine.
“You are on the right track.” Jorge nodded, settling into the chair a little deeper. “But you’ve got the order reversed. Epp is the crony. He’s too old to be in the inner circle of what is stirring in Germany. His defiance and grandstanding in Afghanistan are either a pathetic and futile attempt to worm his way in or a reasonably clever ploy to make him sympathetic to those threatening to rise up.”
Milo forced down a shiver. The thought of a man like Epp, a man who controlled vast military resources and authority, being a puppet or a stooge for whatever was coming was decidedly chilling.
“Who is the real enemy?” Milo asked, the unspoken “and what do we do about them” hanging in the air with Jorge’s lazy curls of smoke.
“I could tell you names that probably mean nothing: Dietrich, Göring, Hess, and others.” Jorge sighed. “The important thing is that they are veterans of this war, identifying as the Ewiges Reich. A terrible name, but they are gaining more traction every day. In fact, one of their toadies, a particularly loathsome madman named Röhm, just let a significant number of armed men from the Russian hinterland through German-held territories. Seems they are set on a path for a particular German-friendly but neutral nation.”
Milo’s eyes narrowed for a moment and then widened, the periwinkle flashing like winter lightning.
“It wouldn’t happen to be the one we are residing in at the moment?”
Jorge’s smile said everything.
Georgia had been part of the Russian Empire just before its fall, but since the collapse of the empire, the rugged nation had managed to keep its independence, along with a few of its neighbors. The Transcaucasian Federation, as it was called, had managed to be relatively uninvolved and un-harassed for nearly a decade. Part of the reason was that German forces intent on fighting battles elsewhere were granted unmolested passage through the mountainous lands. So long as major military movements did not harass or come near major cities, the peace was kept, though Milo had been here long enough to know that not everyone was as sanguine about the arrangement as the Federation let on.
World's First Wizard Complete Series Boxed Set Page 36
