Approaching their little patch of darkness was a band of rangy and snarling youths dressed in some sort of uniform. Their hair was plastered with a greasy product and swept to one side, and though the style of their shirts varied, all bore a distinct shade of brown that was clearly intentional. They loped down the street like young wolves, eyes hungry and bright as their mouths cruelly sneered in obvious anticipation.
“I said,” called a tall teen at the head of the group as they came to stand under a lamppost, “what are you two doing?”
Milo and Ambrose exchanged looks and instantly relaxed. Milo lowered his fetish cane’s point to the pavement, and Ambrose straightened and crossed his arms over his chest. If these children were planning to intimidate vulnerable civilians, they were sorely mistaken.
“Can’t see how that is any of your business,” Ambrose said, only the slightest of rumbles in his cavernous chest.
“If you weren’t doing anything unsavory, you wouldn’t mind telling us, now would you?” the lanky youth snarled, and his pack gave growls and barks of agreement. They arrayed themselves across the pavement as they closed the distance, instinctively moving in lockstep.
“Unsavory?” Milo asked, and he and Ambrose exchanged looks again before bursting into laughter.
Between guffaws, Milo could tell the little posse didn’t take kindly to the levity, faces hardening as hands clenched.
“Berlin is for true Germans,” the leader roared. “It’s bad enough we have Poles and Jews slinking about. We don’t need perverts and deviants fouling our streets too.”
“I think you’re doing enough fouling on your own.” Ambrose chuckled, a dangerous edge coming into his voice. “I mean, what gutter did you boys muck out for that sludge in your hair? Your mothers aren’t going to be happy about that come bath time.”
Several of the young men slung their heads forward as they hissed curses between clenched teeth and shook fists Ambrose’s way.
“Oh, you might get a spanking for using such naughty words, but that might be the point, I suppose,” Milo crowed between snorts of laughter before trying to force a conciliatory face. “Sorry, sorry. We’re teasing. Settle down.”
The wizard leaned on his cane to catch his breath and fought to keep a straight face before the red-faced gallery.
“Now, what is this about? Were you afraid you were being left out?”
Curses, sharp and snarled, drowned out Milo’s ensuing laughter. Along with obscenities came several rude gestures and a fair amount of launched spittle. A small voice in the wizard’s head told him that this was hardly de-escalating the situation, but for the most part, he didn’t care. It was fun taunting the little hellions, and the longing for a fight hadn’t left him.
“Oh, don’t be like that now, boys,” Ambrose called, patting his hands at them in exaggerated placation. “Nothing says you strapping fellows can’t take care of each other. After all, what are friends for?”
Ambrose barely made it through the last words before he descended into a fit of laughter. Milo had settled enough to wipe his eyes, and he noticed the clenched fists of several of the young men now glinted with metal or shone with lengths of polished wood. It was a motley collection of coshes, knives, and pipes, but the hateful creatures outnumbered them five to one.
Milo straightened slightly at the same moment Ambrose noticed the escalation, and the laughter died on his lips.
“You boys best think twice,” he warned even as he wrestled with deploying a little magic to scare the urban brigands. “You went looking for trouble, and your hot heads are going to get you into hotter water.”
The warning had the opposite effect of what Milo had hoped for as predatory grins slid across flushed faces and they edged forward. They’d taken the words as evidence of fear rather than concern for not killing them. The magus suddenly realized he was stupid to envy the immoderation of the common youth.
It was about to get someone killed.
“Does bigotry lead to blindness?” Ambrose asked with a sideways look at the wizard. “Or have these boys' eyes not adjusted from the nursery nightlights?”
Milo seamlessly clueing in on Ambrose’s strategy, they both took a step forward and closer to the lamplight. Upon seeing the men’s uniforms, a ripple went through the pack. As one, they tilted sideways glances at their alpha. The young firebrand’s jaw tightened for a second, but before another heartbeat could pass, he leveled an accusing finger at them, voice raised in a theatrical cry.
“You're not worthy of those uniforms!” he screamed, his voice shaking with fury. “You dishonor the Fatherland and its people with your public depravity.”
His fellows all snapped back on pointe, teeth bared as they inched forward, weapons in hand. Things were quickly approaching the point of no return. Milo realized he would soon have to decide if he’d reveal himself or if he was willing to risk being beaten to death to keep his secret safe.
He raised his voice over the growing babble of angry curses and slurs, trying to sound reasonable. As his voice rang out, he had a revelation that the secret of his magic wasn’t his but the general staff’s as well.
Things had gotten damned complicated quickly.
“Not that it is any of your business,” Milo said, squaring his shoulders and trying to exude officerial authority. “We are two soldiers who were sharing old stories. If you're going to go around defending the Fatherland’s honor, try enlisting or at least picking a fight over something that actually happened.”
The pack advanced two steps, the lamplight shifting behind their hunched backs. One look at the shadowed faces and the feverish glares burning in those sockets told Milo it was too late. Things were in motion and wouldn’t be stopped.
“No fireworks,” Ambrose whispered out the corner of his mouth, coming to the same conclusion as Milo.
A stocky young boy with a crooked nose broke away from the group, brandishing a short length of pipe atop which sat a large blocky bolt.
“If we can avoid killing them and exposing me,” he breathed, sliding the cane into both hands, “that would be preferable.”
“I’m going to smash your lying face in,” growled the mace-wielding youth as he leveled a finger at Milo. “Then I’ll bring that coat back for my commission.”
Ambrose cracked a smile as the boy charged at Milo.
“Don’t think it works that way, kid.”
The rush was wild and sloppy, but the wizard wasn’t taking any chances. He wouldn’t throw fire and ice or conjure terrifying shades—certainly not for some time—but that wasn’t the only magic at his disposal.
Just some speed if you please, Milo thought.
As you wish, master, Imrah answered a touch sullenly.
Milo’s body sped up as the pipe came hurtling toward his head, and he tilted away from the blow with consummate ease. The youth was unprepared for a complete miss and therefore was precariously unbalanced. Milo kicked out and the boy went down hard, his head bouncing off the pavement with a hollow thunk.
The wizard was pretty sure he saw the young man breathing as he turned back to the others, but that was the only sign of life.
“Now, I think that’s enough of that.”
The rest of the pack was already surging in, weapons raised. Milo was glad to find Imrah hadn’t been stingy with the magical enhancements as he darted out of the way of several swings at once. Ambrose roared a battlefield challenge as he rushed to Milo’s defense, then everything became the mad kaleidoscope of violence that was close combat.
The young men weren’t trained fighters, but they had rage and numbers on their side, attacking with a recklessness that was difficult to take advantage of because there was always another attack by their fellows. Multiple times Milo almost delivered a leveling blow, only to check the swing to deflect or sidestep another attacker. At this rate, they’d eventually get him because he had no chance to fight back and they’d wear him down.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ambrose flatten
one teen with a passing elbow as he turned to throw a charging thug over his shoulder. Not for the first time, Milo found himself envying not just the big man’s power but the brutal economy of his movements. Magic could provide much, but those reflexes and ingrained movements came with experience alone.
Milo looked away for a second, and as he backpedaled, his foot slipped. A knife was arcing toward his chest, and with wild desperation, he drew deeply on the fetish in his hands and swung out. The magically-powered movement drove the length of the cane across the forearm holding the knife, and there was an audible snap like rain-dampened twigs breaking. The knife tumbled from a hanging hand, and Milo’s foot in the screaming young man’s chest sent the wretch flying back into his compatriot.
The space this maneuver created was what Milo needed, and he adjusted his grip on the cane and leaped to the attack.
Snarling a curse, he scythed the back of the eagle skull into the hip of the uninjured attacker entangled with the disarmed knife wielder. There wasn’t the satisfying crack of bones this time, but the youth’s leg gave out underneath him. Already enmeshed with a wailing casualty pawing at him one-handed, the unfortunate young man twisted and then toppled onto his injured hip, and his screams mirrored his compatriot’s.
Milo spun to the next two assailants like a grim farmer ready to reap a vicious harvest. The fetish cane’s hooked beak imitated a stubby scythe.
The two young men hesitated, and that cost them dearly. A sharp chop to a knee felled each, and rap on the skulls left them sprawled on the pavement.
When Milo’s gaze swept around, he saw only two figures left standing. Ambrose was advancing on the tall leader. He had not rushed in with his pack, who now lay in various states of unconsciousness and disarray.
Ambrose’s thick fingers were curled, and a terrible grin had spread beneath his bristling mustache. His expression suggested the big man would love nothing better than to devour the whelp after tearing him apart with those hooked fingers.
The young firebrand didn’t seem keen on the idea.
“This isn’t over,” he hissed as he began to shuffle backward, hate and fear shining in bulging eyes.
“Why are you leaving?” Ambrose growled from deep in his chest. “Come a little closer, and we can finish it properly.”
The packless alpha skittered back several steps, pausing on the edge of flight.
“The new Reich—the forever Reich—is coming,” he screeched at them defiantly. “Soon you and all the traitors like you will be hanging in the streets. Very soon!”
Ambrose sprang forward and the young man bolted, boots thumping on the street.
“Forever Reich?” Ambrose spat, kicking a moaning youth pawing feebly at his foot as he turned and picked his way toward Milo. “What an ass.”
A tremor went through Milo as the adrenaline and magical fortification leached from his body and he looked at their handiwork. All of them would live, but several of them would walk with a limp or have to chew on one side for a while.
He’d had the fight he’d longed for, but its source was little comfort.
“Street gangs preaching the coming Reich.” He sighed heavily. “That can’t be a good sign.”
Ambrose nodded, then patted Milo’s shoulder.
“Fear not.” He started to pull the wizard away from the scene.
“Come along, sweetheart.” He chuckled. “We had our fun, but we’d best get you back to the general staff before you’re missed.”
4
These Questions
Their arrival at the general staff offices was not nearly as casual as their departure.
They’d no more than set foot into the lobby of the building when a grim cohort advanced on them as though they had been lying in wait.
“Milo Volkohne, come with us,” instructed a stern-looking young officer with the insignia of the military police emblazoned on his lapel. At his side were two enlisted men with pistols and truncheons on their belts, and something in the set of their shoulders made it clear they were handily proficient with either.
“Am I under arrest?” Milo asked, the skin on his arms prickling as a stone settled into his stomach.
“The general staff has reconvened,” the officer said, dismissing the question with a curt blink. “You were not in the lobby when an aide was sent to find you, so we’ve been asked to make sure you arrive with all speed.”
The idea of sitting there stewing in the lobby while the general staff whispered and grumbled among themselves had never occurred to him. It seemed they were not accustomed to having people take the initiative. Good thing he hadn’t returned to the hotel room Jorge had rented for him. The general staff would have been left waiting a good long while if that were the case.
“I’m sorry you had to spend time looking for us,” Milo said sincerely. “We went to visit a church.”
The officer, a first lieutenant Milo noted, gave them a wry look and nodded at Ambrose.
“Bloody knuckles are an odd thing to collect at a church service,” he remarked dryly. Ambrose sheepishly ground his fists against the hem of his trousers. “But I was spared the tedium of hunting you down. Colonel Jorge instructed me to wait here and said that you would be along eventually.”
Milo blinked rapidly, and his fingers tightened on the cane.
“Jorge is here?”
The officer nodded evenly, but there was a subtle shift in his stance, a slight forward lean like he was preparing to spring after a skittish creature or a naughty child with a truant streak
“He arrived shortly after the recess,” he said softly as though afraid his tone might spook Milo into flight.
Milo was sure he looked as nervous as he felt at the announcement of Jorge’s arrival, but he couldn’t think of anything to say to break the tension. Thankfully, Ambrose cleared his throat and drew the eyes of the looming trio.
“So, instead of the tedium of stretching your legs in Berlin, you endured the tedium of the lobby for the past few hours?” Ambrose asked, arms tucked behind his back now that he had given up on cleaning his knuckles. “There’s decent coffee, and the scenery isn’t half bad,” he added with the ghost of a smile haunting his lips. At the desk behind him, a buxom administrative assistant was closing up shop at her workspace.
“You came just in time.” He nodded and swept an arm toward the conference room. “Shall we?”
Milo followed, Ambrose at his shoulder.
They made it to the double doors of the conference room, behind which could be heard a general hubbub. The lieutenant stepped forward and spoke to Milo.
“I’m afraid your aide will have to wait here,” he said in the formalized conciliatory tone that made most unpleasant things palatable. “He can stand out here with us if you’d like since we aren’t allowed to enter either.”
Milo met the officer’s gaze levelly.
“He’s not my aide but my bodyguard,” Milo said, his chin rising in challenge.
“I can’t imagine there is anything in that chamber that dangerous,” the lieutenant said with a faint chuckle that ceased as his gaze hardened. “And if there is, it's not something one bodyguard can save you from.”
Ambrose gave an audible grunt, but the wizard knew there was no point. He’d faced the old hawks alone before, and having a dustup with those Reich louts didn’t mean the hierarchy was about to shift.
“I’m sure you’ll find something to amuse yourself and stay out of trouble,” Milo said with a warning look at the big man.
“If you say so, sir,” Ambrose said as he threw himself into an exaggerated salute that looked more like a bout of epilepsy than military decorum.
The lieutenant’s eyes darted between the two of them, but he decided sorting out such things was not his problem. With a nod to Milo, he stepped aside and let the wizard stride into the belly of the beast.
“How good of you to join us, Volkohne,” Jorge remarked over his shoulder with a warmth that made his welcome sound sincere.
The head of Nicht-KAT and the man who’d plunged Milo into a world of darkness, magic, and violence was seated in the same spot the wizard had been in earlier that afternoon. Unlike Milo, the venerable officer seemed perfectly at ease under the gaze of Ludendorff and his cronies, even as the bristle-lipped crowd scowled and murmured as much or more to the colonel as they had to Milo.
“You can have a seat right here,” Jorge said, bobbing his head slowly at a seat at his left. “I don’t imagine this will take much longer.”
There were further signs of irritation from the bearish gathering of military officials, but Jorge acted like a duck in a summer rain. Milo quickly moved to the proffered seat, unsure if Jorge’s ease was a good thing or merely the velvet sheath around a descending blade.
“We are about finished, I think,” Jorge said as he turned to the general staff with an expression that was far more steel than sunshine. “I believe it is a matter of a promise made and some documents signed.”
“The general staff has not decided to accept your perspective on the situation,” Ludendorff pronounced archly, leaning toward Jorge with a deepening scowl. “Even if we do, this business with Russia is—”
“Something I think you’d much rather I handle,” Jorge cut in without raising his voice even a little. “And the general staff knows it would be ridiculous to expect me to do the work it needs while snatching the tools I have out from under my command.”
It took Milo an instant to recognize that he was silently nodding in agreement with the colonel, even as he was being described as a tool. Blithely ignoring the wizard’s mute support, Jorge continued in a mild conversational tone.
“The reality is that I’ve been working on your behalf for years now, and you were very happy to give a crippled soldier something to occupy his time until you realized the value of what I’ve brought to you.”
Jorge placed a hand on Milo’s shoulder. He couldn’t help straightening and trying to look noble. Painfully aware of where his tattoos showed and the scars on his face, Milo held himself tall and proud, even as the staff murmured and growled around them.
Wizardborn (World's First Wizard Book 3) Page 5
