By the time he finished, he was puffing and blowing, but also grinning from ear to ear. This was just scratching the surface of what he had to learn, and it was incredible. True, a firearm could do much the same without nearly as much mental effort, but that wasn’t the point. With a little bit of stone, bone, and whatever dwelt inside the skull cane, he’d conjured fire and given himself the ability to move with inhuman quickness and might. He could appear utterly harmless before springing into lethal action in the space of a thought...as long as he kept his focus, of course.
He imagined Colonel Jorge could find something useful for an agent like him to do.
As they walked back to their apartment, Ambrose muttered about his plans for the meal and whined about his dwindling supply of alcohol, but Milo’s thoughts were elsewhere.
In his mind’s eye, he imagined himself stalking through the dark, misty streets of Paris or London. No longer the ragged, lanky product of a war orphanage and rebellious criminality; he saw himself as an agent provocateur, dangerous and dapper. With utter confidence and a suave wardrobe to match, he would move through enemy territory, sowing chaos and disruption. Skull-topped cane tapping across the pavement in challenge, he’d busy himself befuddling enemy agents and dispatching threats to the German Army. By the time the Federated and Colonial regiments arrived, he’d be waiting to hand them the keys to victory before setting off on another daring adventure.
He’d return to Berlin every now and again, donning his crisp black greatcoat to meet with Colonel Jorge and receive secret medals for his discreet service to the Empire. After tucking such medals into his hidden sanctum, he would prowl the fine parties and balls of the great and good of the conquering Empire. He would drink and dance and gallivant with the best of them before duty and danger called once more. He’d plant a farewell kiss on his latest darling’s lips before slipping into the night with a dashing flourish and a mystic flash from his eyes.
Milo the Magus, Humanity’s First Wizard, Mystical Agent of the German Empire, the man who would bring victory and eventually the end to the Great War. He would be celebrated, loved, and...
Ambrose’s heavy arm slammed into Milo, knocking him out of his reverie and flat against the wall of the corridor.
He winced, and a curse slipped from Milo’s lips as his head knocked against the stone, but Ambrose’s arm held him fast.
“What’s going on?” Milo hissed, raising a hand to rub the back of his smarting head.
Ambrose turned toward him, a finger on his lips.
“Company,” the bodyguard mouthed, and twitched his shoulder.
Just ahead was the branch of passages that led to their apartment, and urgent voices could be heard. The words were in Ghulish, which Milo realized with a smile he now understood. Raising a finger to his own lips, he craned his neck to listen.
“I don’t care if you’ve a missive signed by Azazel himself,” he heard one voice replying with unmasked belligerence. “The orders are that only those chosen by the Bashlek may see the Magus, and that is a shortlist you aren’t on.”
That must have been one of the guards Fazihr had posted. The ghul retainer had respected their wish for no guards in the apartments, but one was stationed in the corridor right outside their door.
“You fool,” the second voice said in a lofty tone Milo took a dislike to instantly. “This isn’t an idle request to gawk at the humans. This is a call to appear before the Nether Council immediately.”
The first voice gave a vicious laugh.
“Last I checked, the Nether Council advises the Bashlek, not the other way around. You want to guess which one I’m more worried about?”
The second voice snarled in frustration, its tone growing more frantic.
“Do you understand who came to court today, cretin?”
Milo could imagine the shrug in the intervening silence. It was followed by a disgusted sound in the back of the throat of the haughty voice. Ambrose began to lean over to peek around the corner, but Milo grabbed his shoulder. When the big man turned to him, bemused, Milo again pressed a finger to his lips and then tapped his ear.
“A troupe of the meddling fey,” the second voice hissed. “For all their long-nosing about, the pix are good for something, and that is news. They shared a tidbit that requires the Nether Council to question the human.”
“Question, is it?” The guard snorted. “First an appearance, now questions. If we send the Magus down, do you think he’ll make it before the questions become an interrogation, or will you just skip the whole business and make it an execution?”
Milo found himself liking this guard despite himself. He could appreciate the ghul’s sarcasm, even if it was delivered in a tongue as vile as Ghulish.
“If an army of humans is marching over our heads mere days after a human arrives in Ifreedahm, don’t you think the council should ask questions?”
The silence that followed was wrenchingly potent.
“A human army?” the ghul guard burbled less certainly. “When? How many?”
“Am I going to see the Magus?”
There was a low hiss, then the clack of teeth snapping irritably.
“The Magus is still in training with Lady Imrah,” the guard said quickly, as though the words were hot on his tongue.
“Fine,” the second ghul said with obvious strain. “Do you know when it will return?”
Not sure what he was doing but determined to figure things out, he slid free of Ambrose’s arm and bid the man follow him.
“It has just arrived,” he declared sharply as he rounded the corner. “Now, tell me what you fine gentleghuls want with a humble man such as me.”
He finished with a flourishing bow, one hand extended and clutching his skull cane.
Both ghuls gaped at him as though he were a demon summoned by their conversation. Milo wondered if they’d have been less surprised if he was a fiend. Shock and what looked suspiciously like hunger shone in their wide eyes.
“Laying it on a bit thick,” Ambrose grumbled under his breath. He stepped forward to address the unblinking stares of the ghuls.
“All right, fellas,” Ambrose called, giving his hands a clap before rubbing them together. “What’s your business here?”
“The Magus must attend the Nether Council,” the guard ghul answered, his claws picking nervously across the knobs of his vertebrae whip. “They’ve some questions to ask.”
“Do they now?” Milo asked and fixed the ghul with a steady glare as he moved to stand shoulder to shoulder with his bodyguard.
The ghul gulped and looked away.
“Indubitably,” the second ghul replied, straightening his bone-white mantle on his narrow shoulders. “There have been developments that require immediate consideration.”
Milo looked at Ambrose, who wore a wary scowl.
“You’re a popular fellow, it seems,” the big man muttered.
“It does seem that way.” Milo shrugged, wishing he felt like the dapper operative he’d imagined only moments ago. “Fine, take us to the Nether Council.”
The mantled ghul nodded and swept past them to lead them down the citadel’s winding corridors.
“Hope you know what you’re doing,” Ambrose murmured at Milo’s shoulder.
“They were talking about a human army being near Ifreedahm,” Milo whispered. “Do you suppose there are some of ours?”
“Haven’t a clue.”
“Well, this is how we find out, isn’t it?”
Ambrose’s frown remained fixed, and he shook his head.
“I suppose, but I don’t like it,” he grumbled, adjusting the rifle on his shoulder. “The only thing more useless than one bureaucrat is a council full of ‘em. And that’s before you get anyone’s nethers involved.”
13
An Interruption
Seeing fey for the first time would have been memorable enough, but seeing them in the gloomy halls of the ghul citadel was a moment Milo would never forget.
The
y shone like jewels filled with beautiful light, their very skin giving off a soft illumination that defied the twilight of the audience chamber. They wore heavy gray cloaks and gloves that hid most of their bodies, no doubt a consideration to the ghuls, who winced whenever they looked at the lovely creatures. Beneath their hoods, they shone. Even more striking than their height and features, providing an uncanny combination of feral vitality with inescapable courtliness, was the variety displayed between the three. Each was different from the others, yet some aesthetic marked them as one species.
One's skin was the color of grass shoots, and from neck to temple, delicate vines curled and swayed in an internal wind. Another, tall and regal beyond human proportions, bore a perpetual smirk and had skin of polished bronze as his ruby eyes took in the world with a fiery stare. The last, the shortest of the company at eye level with Milo, was a creature of moonlight and lilac who seemed perpetually uninterested yet keenly aware.
All three magnificent creatures, living gods as Milo saw them, stood in a court of monsters who seemed to be working themselves into a frenzy.
“Let’s see what the meat has to say for itself,” his newly awakened ears caught as the white-mantled go-fer led him across the floor.
“Did they really think they would get away with this?” another voice hissed from somewhere in the gathering beneath the galleries. “The arrogance!”
“Now we’ll touch the bottom of this swamp,” a ghul behind Milo croaked in a deep voice. “The council will wring the truth from them, just you watch.”
“I hope it refuses to speak and the council must...encourage it.”
“To think it took the fey to bring us this news.”
“Let’s hope they make an example of him.”
“Filthy humans!”
Milo felt the muscles in his neck coil like springs, and soon, his hands were aching as he gripped his new cane. A potent mixture of anger, fear, and unease roiled in his chest, and Milo soon found his wonder at the fey eclipsed by the reality of the ghuls around him. He could practically feel the pulsing, suspicious energy of Ambrose at his side.
“This isn’t good,” the bodyguard muttered. “We might’ve come with news, but we might have to stay for a trial.”
Milo grunted in agreement, then, seeing past the trio of fey for the first time, he nodded so Ambrose could see.
“And that jury doesn’t seem likely to give us a fair one.”
Beyond the fey, a group of nine ghuls sat in high back chairs that were practically thrones, wearing ivory mantles and stoles, before the empty throne of the Bashlek. With gimlet eyes, the Nether Council watched Milo draw closer. It was impossible to escape the feeling that they were ready to pounce. Milo knew next to nothing about ghul development from womb to tomb, if the wicked things were born or died in the first place, but something about each member of the Nether Council struck him as a very old kind of evil. Not decrepit or frail, but old in the sense that ancient trees will become twisted against the wind, growing gnarled and hard.
“Stand here and wait to be addressed by the Nether Council,” the go-fer instructed as they came level with the fey envoys.
Milo planted his feet and then let the cane tap the stone in front of him as his hands sat upon the skull. He hoped he struck the audience as confident, even untouchable, as their vitriolic whispers slithered around him.
Nonchalantly, he glanced at the fey and saw that all three of them were looking at him. He nodded at them and then listened in dismay as the verdant one with the vines giggled softly, the sound as soft and pure as wind through the trees. Feeling his cheeks burn, he fought to keep his face expressionless as she whispered behind her hand up to the bronze colossus. The towering fey’s smirk broke into a broad smile, and a laugh like thunder rumbled out of his chest. It was a chuckle of such power and grandeur that Milo wanted to join in even though he knew he was the butt of the joke.
For a moment, the whispers quieted to a low susurration, the ghuls in the dark glaring with envious, glinting eyes.
“That’s enough,” came a soft whisper from the smallest fey, her face turning toward the Council before Milo could get a good look at her.
The huge fey shrugged, and his face returned to its knowing smirk. The emerald fey flared her eyebrows teasingly at Milo and gave him a wink before joining her two companions in facing the council. The whispers began to encroach again.
Now that he was no longer under the fey’s direct scrutiny, Milo felt like a weight had been lifted off his chest. He could breathe deeper, and as he did, he was thankful for the tall cane he leaned on.
“Making friends everywhere we go,” Ambrose muttered, eyeing the fey with open suspicion. “Just everywhere.”
“The Nether Council is called to order once more,” croaked a ghul whose wide mouth and thick, wattled throat made him seem like someone had bred a ghul with a toad.
The whispers subsided again, and the toad-ghul nodded toward another ghul who looked remarkably like the one who had sent her cronies to die in the Contest of Abjuration.
“Thank you, Lord Speaker,” said Lady Dazk. “We are also thankful for the patience of our honored guests.”
With one hand sweeping toward the fey, she dipped her head in a shallow bow. They nodded in silent acknowledgment.
“Now to business,” she said, turning to Milo with a triumphant smile that displayed her jagged teeth. “It seems you have a good deal of explaining to do, Magus.”
The title came with a sneer that made Milo wonder if it was kosher to challenge a member of the Nether Council to a Contest of Abjuration. The thought had Milo smiling coldly into the leering face of the ghul aristocrat.
Just a thinner, uglier Jules, Milo told himself. Upon consideration, he thought, Well, not that much uglier.
“Do you think to defy this council with your silence?” she asked in her shrill voice as the whispers began to climb in volume. “Is human arrogance so great that even now, with your treachery exposed, you think this august council beneath you?”
The whispers began to buzz angrily once more.
“Lady Dazk,” Milo said as steadily as he could manage, “if I knew what treachery I’d supposedly committed, I might know what to say. I don’t know if the ghuls have magical ways of reading minds, but I haven’t been taught them yet, so it would be helpful if someone started explaining things.”
The only thing louder than the eruption of Ghulish growls was the verdant fey’s laughter. Milo felt good about himself then and made to wink at the giggling fey, but Ambrose surreptitiously bumped Milo’s elbow and nodded at Lady Dazk as he cleared his throat.
The ghul’s claws dug into the arms of her chair as she quivered with rage. The ornaments hanging from her circlet audibly jangled.
“You cover your sins with levity,” she said in a low, vicious whisper that sliced through the whispers and stilled their owners. “You would bring annihilation to our doorstep, even as we embraced you like one of our own! We’ve come to expect very little from your kind, Magus, but even for your duplicitous ilk, this is treachery most foul. Was the world above not enough for you?”
“Again, Lady Dazk,” Milo pressed with forced patience, “if you could tell me what you think I’ve done, maybe I could give an answer to the council.”
He looked at the other council members pleadingly.
“Will someone please tell me what wrong I’ve supposedly done?”
Milo had gotten a clear picture of the accusation from what he’d overheard outside their apartments and Dazk’s ravings, but he’d be damned if he’d start justifying and denying before anyone had leveled an accusation.
Lady Dazk made to continue her tirade, but another ghul spoke up, ignoring the needle-tipped glares received from Dazk and several other council members.
“These envoys bring word that on their way through the mountains, they spotted human airships,” the ghul said, her voice as thin and brittle as ancient papyrus. “It is the belief of many on this council that
they are here as part of a forward force by a human army to secure the mountain because of intelligence you have passed to them.”
“Knew it was a mountain,” Ambrose muttered to himself before Dazk drowned him out with her sharp cry.
“They will not stop there, Lady Hrawn. They will invade our city!” the excitable council ghul cried, turning to look first at the right gallery and then the left. “They seek to pluck the heart out of the ghul people and the Underworld with one decisive strike, a strike that would not be possible without the magus’ treachery!”
Whispers rose again like angry vipers hissing, and Milo wondered how long he had before they fell upon him in a rending mob. His eyes wandered to Marid’s empty throne, and his heart froze as he realized Dazk had followed his gaze. She turned back to him, teeth glistening in a huge, murderous grin.
“The Bashlek is away on business,” she declared with mock solemnity. “It falls to the Nether Council to see to the defense of Ifreedahm in his absence.”
The smugness in her voice might have driven Milo to spit and curse, but the loaded galleries seemed ready to explode at any second. He had no intention of tempting that hair-trigger.
“Lady Hrawn,” Milo nearly shouted to be heard over the angry noise enfolding him, “I assume the airships that you are talking about are zeppelins, which are indeed used by the armies of the nation I serve, though they are not the only ones.”
Though odds are nine to ten it was the Germans, Milo thought to himself. He remembered the many times the skies over Dresden had seemed clogged with the trundling airborne behemoths.
“See, he does not deny it!” Dazk crowed even as Milo’s voice swam against the tidal surge of frothing ghuls.
“I am sure the Nether Council is aware there is a war, what my people call ‘the Great War,’ being waged on the surface, and the land above is no exception. Since I have not contacted anyone since being invited by the Bashlek, I imagine the zeppelins are reconnoitering enemy positions.”
Witchmarked (World's First Wizard Book 1) Page 15
