Ancient buildings clustered along the cliff face, with so many hollowed out windows and doorways that the whole edifice was like Argus’s petrified corpse. The whole forsaken citadel seemed husk-like, and even as they moved down the dusty streets, Milo couldn’t help remembering that he now knew strange, horrible things moved in the dark. The realization struck even deeper when he remembered that there were things even the monsters didn’t know about.
Fingers closed tight around his cane, and his other hand braced on the butt of his pistol, Milo walked as softly as he could, eyes swiveling this way and that.
So tightly wound were his nerves at the thought of a supernatural horror springing on them that when his ears registered the crack of a rifle shot, he felt relief despite the whine of an angry bullet passing inches from his head.
18
A Return
“Move and die,” came the warning in German.
After 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 teeth glittered in the moonlight.
“Your aide’s a big one, isn’t he?” the sergeant said with a thrust of his chin at Ambrose.
“If you’re impressed now,” the big man called in a bluff, jolly voice, “wait until you get me out of the cold.”
There were chuckles from some of the sentries, and the non-com who held their lives in his leathery hands cracked a smile.
“Wouldn’t want to miss that.” He nodded. “All right, let’s get you sorted.”
Sergeant Major Vogt of the Royal Bavarian Infantry Lifeguards Regiment struck Milo as a man who was every bit as formidable as the name of his regiment, despite his small stature and slight build. He moved among his men with the easy confidence Milo imagined an old wolf might have in a pack he’d whelped. Every man deferred to him with ready respect.
Given this, it was no surprise that things moved fairly quickly for Milo and his companions. Ambrose was given the biggest jacket and pair of trousers they had on hand, then two soldiers and a lance corporal escorted them to Bamyan for debriefing. The city the German army had occupied was sixteen or so kilometers north from Zuhak, and the road winding down from the mountains had been kept in good order.
&nb
sp; Halfway down in the gray light of the predawn, they’d met more Bavarians from the 9th Royal Artillery who were taking a truck down to Bamyan to get some supplies. To help their countrymen, the men from the 9th invited them to hop into the back, ensuring they moved even more quickly down the mountains. Any attempts at conversation were squelched by the rumble of the engine, but it provided Milo and Ambrose an opportunity to take quick naps as they rumbled along. For her part, Imrah seemed intent on watching everything with an almost feral intensity.
“It’s all right,” Milo called to the disguised ghul, remembering that they were still playing at her being a guide. “These are the good guys.”
Imrah looked at him with incredulity, as though he’d suggested it was quiet or the sky was made of spun sugar.
“No such thing,” she hissed, her voice barely audible over the chug of the diesel engine.
“Fair enough,” Milo admitted, and leaned closer so as not to be overheard by the others. “What happened to the contessa?”
“They’re fey.” She shrugged. “Apart from extracting a promise from them, which is nearly impossible, nothing can keep them where they don’t want to be.”
“That sounds useful,” Milo said more admiringly than he intended. “I could think of a lot of uses for that trick.”
The hunger to know more stirred somewhere between his mind and his belly, despite the fatigue.
“Maybe,” Imrah replied coldly. “But you’d have to learn it from a fey, and you might as well ask the wind to teach you to fly.”
Milo gave Imrah a teasing smile and winked at her.
“Why, princess, if I didn’t know better, I would say you sounded jealous of the contessa.”
Imrah clacked her less than impressive human teeth in Ghulish fury before turning away from him in outrage.
Milo shrugged and settled in to contemplate possible tutelage with the likes of the contessa. Somehow the memory of her seemed sweeter than before, and again Milo felt the enchanting pressure at the back of his mind. Like the soft but heavy current of a slow river, it invited him to go where it led. More magic, apparently woven into his memories of the fey. Milo felt a prickle of danger at the thought, but that only seemed to make learning such magic more enticing. He’d only scratched the surface of necromantic alchemy, and there was still so much to learn, it was dizzying.
With his mind occupied, his body found time to enjoy the rocking vibration of the vehicle, lulling him into a shallow but appreciated slumber.
He awoke to bright, burning sunlight stabbing into the bed of the truck as their ride came to a juddering stop, then with a rough shift of gears, began to back up in a wide sweep. Milo raised a hand to shield his eyes, but the invasion of blinding light was cut off by the shadow of the building their ride was sliding back toward. A large pavilion loomed before him, its old timbers jutting from weathered stone speaking of a structure that had served long before the snarl and puff of modern machines had come to squat beneath it. In a glance, Milo saw that it was serving as a centralized motor pool for the various regiments operating out of Bamyan, but the bustle seemed at odds with the aged structure. It was a venerable shelter, more accustomed to the hawking calls of merchants and the smells of asses and oxen.
After their ride came to a stop and they clambered out, Milo noted he could still smell the sharp, musky scents of beasts. After a few minutes, he understood why as he followed their escorts through the hive-like bustle of the motor pavilion, crossed a dusty street of packed earth, and then walked by an expansive stable.
Unlike the pavilion, the stable was a recent addition to this part of the town, a ramshackle collection of scrap wood and metal that had been assembled rather hastily. Milo at first thought the equines were domestic misplaced by German forces, but as they moved past the yard connected to the stable, every creature he saw was wearing a harness with Imperial and regimental colors, though he didn’t recognize the latter.
“You're still using horses?” Milo asked. In Europe, though equines for both combat and logistical support had been fairly common with all belligerents at the outset of the war, they’d been almost completely replaced in the last decade. A combination of technological advances and the fact that arable land was used exclusively for human and not horse fodder meant horses were a sign of war’s onset, an anachronism shoved out as the war-machine ground on.
“Jah.” The lance corporal, a darkly freckled man named Beck, nodded. “In this country of crags and goat tracks, a pony is about the only thing better than your own two feet.”
Milo hadn’t thought about it, but it was a fair point. From what little he’d seen of the country, the respectable road leading down from Shahr-e Zuhak was the exception rather than the rule.
“Wasn’t always that way, of course,” Beck continued as they strode down the street, boots scuffing the packed earth. “The whole command had quite the shock when we moved on from Isonzo. We still get to shoot the occasional Italian, but it's the old four-foots that get most of our boys and their kit where they need to be.”
One of the soldiers piped up, a youth who seemed even younger than Milo, his lip speckled with juvenile peach fuzz. Milo couldn’t remember his name.
“Not that we have to worry about shooting the Romans anymore,” he squeaked. His voice cracked, but he hardly seemed to notice. “Now that they’ve turned tail. It’s all Brits and their colonials now!”
“We’ll shoot whoever’s there,” Beck said, a mild note of reproof in his tone. “Otherwise, we best leave such matters for the Rider.”
“White Rider always where he needs to be.” The other soldier, a sour-faced man named Hort, muttered the words like an incantation.
“Always,” the fuzzy-lipped youth agreed solemnly.
Milo looked at Ambrose, who shrugged, then turned back to see Beck looking at him, his expression between a sheepish grin and a defensive scowl. The look did nothing to help his complexion.
“My apologies, sir,” Beck said stiffly. “The Rider, or sometimes the White Rider, is our name for Major General Epp. He was regimental commander for our own Royal Bavarian Lifeguard before he rose to command the entire division here on this branch of the southeastern front.”
“Funny thing, him being called Rider,” Ambrose mused. “You’re infantry grunts, and in all my years, I’ve never heard a footslogger wanting to take on a cavalryman’s title.”
Some half-heard but distinctly unfriendly mutters rose from the two soldiers, but Lance Corporal Beck silenced them with a look.
“In all your aide’s years,” Beck said while pointedly not looking at Ambrose, “I doubt he’s ever seen the likes of the major general, especially on that day that saw us marching right into Bamyan. If that old goose Viermann had been listened to, we would not have taken the opportunity to seize more ground in a week than has been taken in years in this God-forsaken country.”
Milo wasn’t privy to the intricacies of Federated command structure, much less the details of what had happened on this front, but if he understood correctly, this Epp had disobeyed orders and gotten a promotion out of it. Not only that, but Epp seemed to have won a following with his audacity to boot. Such things made Milo nervous, and he suddenly had a burning desire to report to Lokkemand and get back to his mission.
“Well, you boys are lucky then,” Milo said. “Such victories are rare nowadays.”
There was a low thrum in the air over their heads, and Milo looked up to see a war zeppelin, those great sky-leviathans, churning through the clear air. Its propellers were throbbing almost lazily as it gained altitude, a king climbing languorously to his lofty throne.
“We’re not done yet,” Beck said, his eyes flashing as one finger pointed at the zeppelin. “Why do you think those are humming around?”
Milo could guess, but since he was feeling more and more inclined to be rude to the excitable NCO, he just shrugged. He felt Ambrose should have subtly complimented him on being so tactful, but one look at the big man told Milo he was
having his own struggles with keeping things civil.
“We’re not going to be staying in Bamyan for very long,” the lance corporal said, a hard look stealing across his features.
They marched on in a silence Milo appreciated. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was about the Bavarian Lifeguards that struck a sour note with him, but he felt it all the same. Something nagged at the back of his mind when they spoke, not the words so much as the way they said them. It was also in their eyes, an almost manic shine. As they headed across a broad road, pausing as horse-drawn artillery pieces passed, Milo watched the faces of the men passing them, and he thought he realized what it was.
Fanaticism.
These men moved with an energy and purpose that went beyond the brisk economy of professional soldiers about their work. Every man seemed gripped by frantic energy, at once looking like he might collapse into rapture or explode into rage. Milo felt as though his skin had tightened, and he forced himself to keep looking ahead to keep from looking around in horror.
Once he saw it, Milo was amazed he’d struggled to put his finger on it. It was the same look he’d seen on the faces of the young men who’d been in Roland’s gang. Milo knew that because he’d seen it and heard it in that desperate band of young men, men who’d done incredible violence at Roland’s word. Some of them, barely more than children, had walked smiling into blades and bullets at a word, right before Milo’s eyes. He knew it even more intimately than that, even though it ached like a deep scar to remember.
Milo knew that gleam because he’d seen it in his reflection in those early days. Having drunk from the cup, Milo knew what it meant, and how such things should have been feared. The things he’d been willing to do haunted him almost as much as the things he had done.
The sun was seeping through his clothes, and Milo felt an irritable itch that had more to do with his mind than his body.
Unable to stop himself, Milo stole a glance over his shoulder at the younger soldier as they stepped off the road and made their way across a lot of crushed rock. The glance lasted only a second before Beck gave a grunt and pointed across the lot. They were headed toward a squat brick building surrounded by a barbed fence as tall as the two-story building.
Witchmarked (World's First Wizard Book 1) Page 21
