World's First Wizard Complete Series Boxed Set

by Schneider, Aaron D.

  The magus’ and the bodyguard’s silence offered a clear answer, but it was not appreciated by the captain. His eyes blazed with outrage as both hands tightened into fists.

  Milo struggled to meet the man’s gaze as he loomed huge, trembling with righteous indignation.

  “I know both of you don’t think highly of me, but I am an intelligence officer, for God’s sake! Give me a little credit!”

  Again, neither spoke. Milo stole a glance at Ambrose, who, as usual when dealing with Lokkemand, wore an expression of boredom. Milo was certain this did nothing to improve the captain’s mood.

  “So, this has nothing to do with your actual mission?” Lokkemand spat the question out like it offended his tongue. “Even with food in your belly and time to get your head on straight, you are still chasing miracle cures. Now I find out that you are going to run across the country because you broke into my office.”

  “Dieter let us in,” Milo began, and Lokkemand’s fist came down on the table like a mallet.

  “Dieter be damned!” the captain bellowed, taking one long step to loom over Milo. “You think you can do whatever you want, do you? This is the Army, Volkohne, not some back-alley gang, and discipline will be observed! I have orders, you have orders, and by the Kaiser and Almighty God, you are going to start acting like it!”

  Milo met the captain’s glower, his unease giving way to growing defiance, warmed by an indignant fire in his belly

  “If the fey dies, you are going to be a soldier and take it in stride. Do you understand?” Lokkemand hissed as he bent so he and Milo were nose to nose. “I’m through indulging in your petulant romanticism. If you hadn’t noticed, there is a war going on, and it’s a lot bigger than whatever you’re hoping to get out of that faerie tart.”

  The corner of Milo’s mouth curled up to form a disdainful snarl. So far, he had not wanted to engage out of some unfamiliar sense of guilt, but at the callous mention of Rihyani’s death, that guilt evaporated.

  “You idiot,” Milo snarled. “You petty, jealous moron!”

  Lokkemand reared back at the venom of the words. Even Ambrose’s eyes widened in surprise at the sudden vitriolic retort.

  “What did you j—” Lokkemand shouted, but Milo thrust his face upward as he set in like a dog with a bone.

  “You don’t even see it, do you? Bitter and blind, you don’t see that it isn’t just about Rihyani, though God knows that should be enough. You claim to be an intelligence officer, but you need me to put the pieces together for you.”

  “You arrogant little—”

  “I’m not finished!” Milo roared. a bass note of magical potency underpinning the declaration. “I need information, expertise, and knowledge to fight the kind of fight we are going to face. Rihyani represents that, but it isn’t just her or even other fey, but the Shepherds who are going to be our best bet for taking on the Guardians and the Reich. That being the case, it seems a piss-poor decision to let their friendliest agent die when we could save her, doesn’t it?”

  Lokkemand’s jaw worked as he ground angry retorts into furious silence.

  “I’m going to that mountain, and I’m not coming back until I’ve got something to save her,” Milo pronounced before turning to Ambrose and jerking a thumb toward the exit. “Come on. I’ve got to bleed one more time, and you’ve got to prepare for a trip.”

  Ambrose, his face flushing under the burden of bewildered respect, nodded and tucked the map under his arm as they moved toward the door.

  Milo felt Lokkemand tense at his back, his body coiling to spring. The magus was more relieved than he cared to admit that in the end, Lokkemand decided against it. That was a fight no one would have won.

  “The enemy is expected in three days' time,” Lokkemand said, his voice as hard and sharp as a chisel’s edge. “You are putting everything at risk. Everything.”

  “I can live with that,” Milo spat as he yanked the door open, sending Dieter scrambling to get out of the way. “I guess you’ll have to also.”

  “I’m within my rights to stop you,” Lokkemand warned, his voice sullen and dangerous. “I could have both of you shot right here right now and that fey dumped into the river to become someone else’s problem. It would take one word, Volkohne. One word.”

  Milo paused in the doorway, the cane in his hands giving the briefest flicker of witchfire.

  “Then say the word,” Milo challenged, his eyes fixed on the room beyond. “Captain.”

  His words hung upon the trembling air.

  A few fragile seconds more and Milo nodded and walked out of the office, Ambrose right behind him, one hand still resting on the knife at his belt.

  * * *

  “You think she’ll be okay here?” Ambrose asked, casting a concerned glance at Rihyani’s recumbent form. “I mean, after everything Lokkemand said?”

  “What did Lokkemand say?” Brodden asked as he finished bandaging Milo’s arm.

  Two and a half more pints of blood.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Milo grumbled as he rose from his seat next to her cot. “And yes, Ambrose, I think she’ll be fine.”

  Milo wobbled for an instant, and both bodyguard and medic shot out a hand to steady him. The magus waved them off as he righted himself, surreptitiously leaning on his cane and taking the smallest sip of supernatural strength from it.

  “You need to rest and refuel,” Brodden said, looking Milo over and shaking his head. “I know you’ve got that magic business to help, but in less than forty-eight hours, you’ve given the equivalent of a human body’s entire blood supply. It can’t be good for you.”

  Milo patted the man on the shoulder and gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll have nearly two days to do nothing but sleep, eat, and whine at my nurse.”

  “A day and a half,” Ambrose corrected. “And the second you complain about my bedside manner, I’m throwing you in the trunk.”

  Brodden snapped a look at the two, dragging a hand over his haggard face.

  “When they told me I had signed on for Nicht-KAT duty, I expected things to be different,” the medic muttered as he started cleaning the transfusion kit. “The truth is that in some ways, it's been both better and worse than I ever thought it would be.”

  “Didn’t exactly think serving the Fatherland would involve swapping blood with faeries, eh?” Ambrose asked with a chuckle.

  “A patient’s a patient,” Brodden stated. “Sure, pink blood and all is a little off-putting, but the rest of it is pretty familiar.”

  “Then what part is throwing you off?” Milo asked with a yawn. He was suddenly looking forward to taking the restorative and hunkering down in the cab of the Rollsy.

  “Honestly?” Brodden asked, his gaze sliding between the men, seeming to size each of them up.

  “Of course, honestly.” Milo laughed, but the sound died on his lips as understanding dawned on him. “O-oh, you mean us?”

  Brodden nodded slowly, weight shifting cautiously to his back foot.

  “Yeah,” he said softly, his eyes narrowing even as his tone edged toward an apology. “Fact is, we, meaning the other grunts like me on this detail, we’re used to some friction between NCOs and COs, and even rivalries between officers, sure, but this is something different.”

  The magus nodded before he realized what he was doing, the medic professing something Milo had felt since donning the black greatcoat. A dissonance, an uncertainty, and not only in himself.

  Brodden took a deep breath,

  “We came expecting to face strange things, but I expect most of us thought the backbone of our time in the army, duty, chain of command, order, wouldn’t be the thing to change. You two are walking, talking deviations from that.”

  Ambrose shot Milo a look, mustache bristling as he formed a retort, but Milo gave a slight shake of his head. Brodden carried on, either not noticing or not caring what had passed between the two men.

  “Neither of you has a real ra
nk, but you're not civilians,” Brodden said with a shake of his head. “You defy orders and aren’t punished for it, and when a high-ranking officer shows up, he barely has time to notice your superior officer before having a chat with a former conscript wearing the black.”

  Milo felt the urge to bristle rising, but a combination of curiosity and fatigue shut down the impulse.

  “We all have to wonder if you’re the one running the show, but we don’t even know what the show is.” Brodden shrugged. “You whisper together and steal supplies, then disappear, only to come back and fill the nights with screams and the smell of sulfur and smoke.”

  Milo took a deep breath, his mind filling with the realization of how the horrors and marvels of his new reality might look to common men, many not so different from him. He had to admit that he’d not given them much thought, and he’d never seriously considered what they thought of him.

  “We’ve all been doing this long enough that we’re used to not knowing the reasons we’ve got to fight and die,” the medic said with a grim smile. “But with everything else we count on going out the window, maybe we just need to know what it is we’re trying to do.”

  Milo knew the answer, but for a second it hung on his tongue, seeming like something more fantastical, more impossible than even talk of faeries and curses. Ambrose, seeing the conflict in Milo’s eyes, made to answer, to guard, but again Milo warded him off with a look.

  Brodden, faithful to his patient despite everything, at least deserved the truth.

  “I’m trying to end the War,” Milo said.

  To his relief, Brodden didn’t laugh or sneer. He stared, eyes narrowed, waiting.

  “I found out I can do magic, and now I’m trying to use that magic to end the War,” Milo explained.

  “You mean to win it?” Brodden asked, eyes still narrowed.

  “If that’s what it takes,” the magus said, his gaze unwavering. “No matter what, it’s got to end, but to have hope for any of this, I need help, and for that, I need her. She’s fighting to help stop the War too.”

  Brodden looked down at the fey, his face flat and unresponsive even as his eyes revealed a riot of feelings.

  “So right now, all of this,” Brodden continued, not looking up. “It’s to help a fellow soldier, then.”

  Milo felt a smile creeping across his face.

  “I suppose that’s the truth.”

  11

  The Scars

  The wind was on fire.

  He could smell it, could hear it, and when he finally had the courage to open his eyes, he could see it.

  Cinders trailing tails of stinging flame moved like a swarm of locusts, flying up and out over the street to slither across the rooftops. Some of the hellish sprites caught amidst the snowy crevices, winking out, but others found drier homes where they could nest and start colonies of flame. These colonies soon gnawed deep enough that they were sending up their own infernal offspring to reinforce the burning pestilence roiling through the air.

  The wind continued to burn, and he watched it ravish the City.

  But where is this?

  The question struck his mind like a hammer, and the whole world rippled, even his body. He wondered if the firestorm had asked the question, and a sudden fear gripped him. If he did not answer, would the storm take him away?

  “The City!” he cried out in his small voice.

  His fingers tightened around the blanket in his hand, but he didn’t put it in his mouth like he wanted to. Momma had said he was too old for that sort of thing, so as bravely as he could, he stood and watched the storm, waiting for another question.

  Where is Momma?

  The last word came out strangely, as though the storm was unfamiliar with the word. He supposed that storms did not have mommas, so it made a sort of sense.

  “I don’t know,” he said, and the utterance of the words made his throat tight and his chest flutter. He felt his eyes doing another thing Momma told him he was too old for.

  “Sorry.” He sniffed as he ground his blanket against his treacherous eyes. “I don’t know.”

  The storm did not speak again, but he felt heat against his back. Looking back and up, he saw that the building he sheltered beneath was now burning. One of the windows on the second floor burst into a cloud of brilliant razors that fell twinkling on the street just a few steps from him. His bare feet itched and ached at the thought of walking that way.

  Black smoke belched from the shattered window, and he knew it was time to go.

  Stepping down from the house, he heard two more windows break, and the roar of the flames within almost drowned out the chiming tune of glass shattering behind him.

  He made it several steps before realizing he didn’t know where he was going. He looked back down the street and saw that the house he’d been in front of had spread its fiery infection to its neighbors. Snow-covered roofs sent up clouds of steam that were blotted out by black smoke. Windows shattered and doors cracked as the infection consumed more of its victim.

  He looked back up to the storm again, red and vast above him.

  “Where do I go?” he pleaded. “I’m lost.”

  Again, saying the words prompted his eyes to betray him, and he was obliged to mop his face.

  The storm did not answer in a voice he understood, continuing its crackling howl, but he heard something that made him turn back to where he’d come.

  There were screams and snorts and shouts, and for a moment, his eyes could make no sense of what he saw. Shapes emerged from the corridor of flame that had become the street behind him, their gait wrong and ungainly as they moved with incredible speed. They seemed to be made from smoke, they were so dark and swift, but at the ends of their outstretched limbs were angry flickering stars. The closer they drew, the more he could hear of their hooves striking the cobbles and the more he understood their harsh, baying voices, but the less he could see of them, their forms wavering and running together. He realized that his eyes had played Judas once more, and by the time he’d swept the obscuring tears away, it was too late.

  They were bearing down on him, and from where he stood on the street, he couldn’t avoid them.

  “Bolshevik whelp!” “Red brat!” “Traitor-spawn!”

  Stamping hooves and stars at the end of hard sticks swept around and over him, a new storm to bear. He scrambled and shrieked in fear, but there was nowhere to go. He glimpsed their faces over him, stark white faces streaked with soot, with eyes burning like the storm.

  A hot, hairy flank bludgeoned him to the ground, and one of the stars was thrust toward him.

  He felt the heat, but at the same time, he felt hands, small but strong, drag him up and away. He was on his feet as an equine scream, chillingly familiar, rent the air. The hands were pushing him now, moving him forward. The next scream was distinctly mannish, and there were loud impacts that made his body shake hearing them. He tried to look around to see what was happening, but the hands kept him moving, off the street and between two houses that had not yet succumbed to the storm’s infectious presence.

  He’d lost his blanket somewhere along the way, and without thinking, made to go back and look for it, but the hands slammed him against the alley wall.

  “What are you doing?” hissed a voice that wasn’t a man’s but wasn’t a boy’s either. “Do you want to die?”

  He blinked and saw the face of a boy, a much older boy, glaring down at him with dark, angry eyes. Even with the eyes blazing, he recognized the boy’s face as very handsome, even beautiful. It took him a moment of staring to realize that the hands that held him and the beautiful, angry face that watched him belonged to the same person. He felt silly and scared all at once, and that made it even harder to respond.

  “Are you just stupid?” the boy demanded, and somehow the words made it clear he wasn’t so much older. Maybe not the words, the way the beautiful boy said them.

  “What’s your name?” he managed to squeak out as the older boy let him
go.

  “Roland,” the boy said, his face losing some of the anger. “What’s your name?”

  “Milo,” he replied, then he felt something hard and unforgiving in his throat. “And I’m lost, and I don’t know where Momma is.”

  He hated himself for the tears that were running down his face, hated how disappointed Momma would be, even hated how the older boy didn’t get mad at him for being a baby, only looked sadder and more scared.

  “Hey.” The older boy sniffed, looking away as a palm drug across those burning eyes. “We need to move. They might look for us.”

  He peered at the beautiful boy who was trying to pretend he wasn’t crying too and decided that the boy wasn’t that much older after all. Bigger, yes, braver, certainly, but not that much older. Somehow that made him feel closer to the boy, warmer. He decided then and there to trust him.

  He took one of the strong hands that had saved him in the hand that had held his blanket, and there was no effort to shake him off. They were friends now.

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” Roland answered. “But we stick together, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  So, this was how it started?

  Within the alley, the presence of the storm seemed diminished, and he realized the voice couldn’t be the storm. It was too cold, too small, and too close, seeming to come from just over his shoulder.

  The storm was an angry god. This voice belonged to the things creeping under beds or inside closets.

  Still holding Roland’s hand, he turned and looked at where the voice had to be.

  He saw nothing but a brick wall, but as he stared, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled, and his eyes opened to the space between spaces, past the remembered bricks.

  Gleaming eyes winked over a mouth full of fangs.

  * * *

  Milo woke with a start and promptly struck his head on something hard, knocking the recollection of the dream from his mind.