World's First Wizard Complete Series Boxed Set

by Schneider, Aaron D.

  Brodden freed his fingers to clap both his hands over his mouth as he shuffled backward, his face seeming ready to split in half from terror and excitement. He rocked on the balls of his feet to the point that Milo thought the man might lose his balance and a new medical emergency would arise.

  “Go now with this boon,” Rihyani decreed, fingers still stretched out toward him. “And speak of it to no one lest the curse be visited upon both of you until your dying days.”

  Brodden staggered back and fumbled for his medical bags.

  “Hurry, man!” Ambrose barked, making Brodden jump like a startled cat. “Before it's too late and goblins dog you all the way back to Germany.”

  Brodden was still juggling his pack as he tore out of the room, and the sound of his pounding boots could be heard through the entire wing of the complex as he fled. Only as the last of his hammering steps faded did the three left in the room allow themselves a hearty laugh.

  “Did you see his face?” Milo gasped between hoots of laughter, “But goblins, really?”

  “A bit much?” Ambrose asked as he chuckled from the depths of his vast belly.

  “A bit.” Rihyani giggled and threw him a wink.

  It was a few more minutes before they were composed enough for Milo to ask the question that had formed as he’d taken part in the spectacle.

  “That wasn’t any kind of actual magic though, right?” Milo asked, glancing to where Brodden had stood moments ago. “I mean, I could feel your will at work, and I don’t know how you could work on a will that isn’t here.”

  “Oh, you’d be amazed what the Art can accomplish with a little ingenuity,” Rihyani said, smiling up at him before fluttering her fingers. A glowing cigarillo appeared between her fingers. “Our magic may be temperamental, but it is remarkable what we can achieve.”

  Milo stared at her, chin lowered and eyebrows raised.

  “Oh, fine. No, it wasn’t magic,” she said before taking a toke and releasing a fragrant plume of smoke. “Just a little bit of observation. To pass the time, he’d usually read his letters from home, including those from a lovely young woman named Johanna. I’m not sure if he knows this, but the man mutters every other word as he reads.”

  Milo and Ambrose stared at the contessa.

  “You could hear even when you were out?” Ambrose asked.

  Rihyani nodded and took a heavy drag.

  “One of the wonders of being fey is that we are never absent or insensate,” she said with a sigh as she looked into the fire. “We can disconnect ourselves from aspects of our physical bodies to free our minds to wander, and that is the closest we get to sleeping or dreaming. Or in my case, giving me a little buffer from my injuries.”

  She shuddered at that, and they lapsed into silence.

  As Milo considered this fact in light of the extremely long, possibly immortal lifespans of the fey, he suddenly understood why they all seemed eccentric in one way or another. Centuries and no true sleep; no wonder they all seemed a little—or a lot,—odd.

  “So, the nightwatch,” Milo began, an uncomfortable thought worming its way through his mind. “What did it do?”

  Rihyani looked at him squarely in his face, and he felt a pang as he remembered her pained cry as she came to.

  “It made sure I knew you needed my attention,” she said softly.

  Milo felt his cheeks burning and struggled to hold her gaze.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You already said that,” she replied.

  Ambrose looked at the two of them, sensing more at play than a misunderstanding of fey physiology.

  “Well, that sounds downright hellish,” he said finally with a slow shake of his head. “If I couldn’t enjoy a good snooze, I think I’d have eaten a bullet or four by now.”

  Not that it would’ve done you any good, Milo thought, and he felt a sudden thrill of fear as he glanced at the fey. He’d worried for an instant that she might have heard the sentiment, but then he remembered the disentangling after the hex was released, and he breathed a sigh of relief. That level of connection was something he still viewed like a blazing fire: powerful but more than a little dangerous. Yet, like dancing flames, he wasn’t going to forget the warmth of it anytime soon.

  Rihyani felt his gaze upon her again and she looked up at him, turning her head coyly with a teasing smile on her dark lips.

  “Yes?” she asked coaxingly.

  “Um-uh,” he stammered as his mind scrambled. “I was just wondering if you know, uh, with no magic at play, if Brodden was in for a rather disappointing letter from Johanna?”

  Rihyani shook her head, and Milo noticed that already her hair didn’t seem quite so lank or her cheeks so sunken.

  “Oh, Brodden has nothing to worry about,” she said brightly. “Even with missing every other word, I could tell the sweet Johanna’s been practically burning with longing for him to ask her.”

  “And the poor fool needed a fey to bully him into it?” Ambrose chuckled.

  “Some men need a little extra help,” Rihyani said, and Milo couldn’t help noticing the sidelong glance she gave him through a cloud of tobacco smoke.

  * * *

  By dusk, they all stood upon the battlements of the fortress to watch Lokkemand and his entourage depart. Ambrose muttered curses, most concerning Lokkemand and his parentage, while Rihyani, who was more herself by the second, watched with an enigmatic expression. Milo remained silent, wrestling with an odd combination of guilt and relief.

  What might happen to Nicht-KAT, Jorge, and yes, even Lokkemand, troubled him, but the fact was, he was free to do as he saw fit. A nagging thought told him he’d behaved that way up to this point, but with Lokkemand now gone and everything declared a loss, anything he could salvage from the situation would be an unexpected success. He hadn’t wanted things to turn out this way, but now that they had, he felt there was nothing holding him back.

  And that meant preparing for what came next.

  “The messenger said within a week,” Milo related after the last lights of the last vehicle winked behind a concealing hill. “That means that we have four days to prepare for Stalin and his forces.”

  “I doubt very much if forces will be sent just for us.” Ambrose grunted. “A decent number of Germans to drag out for a big show execution is one thing, but we aren’t worth the time. He’ll send a squad of conscripts if he sends anything.”

  Rihyani nodded but said nothing as she drew her heavy traveling cloak around her shoulders. She’d begun to show the traces of silver light in her complexion and hair, but she was still a long way from her usual brilliance. Milo had offered her one of his restoratives, but she had declined, saying that she was healing quicker than her appearance suggested. Milo found that incredible considering the ordeal she’d gone through, but he was counting on her rapid recovery.

  “That’s only because they think the Germans all left,” Milo said, a smile hitching up one corner of his mouth. “But if they think the opposite occurred, like maybe an entire regiment marched in, they would have to make a show of force. There is more than a good chance that Stalin might send the bulk of his forces to make a clear statement.”

  Both fey and bodyguard turned to look at Milo with furrowed brows.

  “And why would they think that?” Rihyani asked.

  Milo kept staring into the coming night and smiling.

  “Because we’re going to use the Art to make it look like that.”

  “Milo,” Rihyani began, her eyes narrowing as she studied his face in profile, “the Art can make others believe things and even be affected by those beliefs, but fighting a battle with an illusory army is beyond any fey’s skill.”

  Milo turned away from the dark and looked at Rihyani, still smiling.

  “We aren’t going to fight them,” he explained. “We’re going to lure them out here, and with most of his men chasing phantoms, we’re going to find and capture Stalin. With the head of the coup gone and the forces dispersed, the Georg
ian government will have a chance to recover. We can’t fix it for them, but we can give them a chance while we take Stalin back to Nicht-KAT for interrogation.”

  Ambrose and Rihyani both looked doubtful but nodded slowly.

  “It’s halfway to suicide,” the big man muttered. “But if you can convince the Reds that’s what’s going on, it might work.”

  “Not to sound bloodthirsty, but wouldn’t it be easier to kill this Stalin?” the contessa asked.

  “We need to know his connection to the Guardians,” Milo explained. “We need to get a better understanding of what connections they have to German forces and outside, and questioning Stalin seems like the best bet to get some answers as to how his benefactor operates.”

  Rihyani considered the answer for a moment, looking out into the darkness deepening across the vista.

  “And if the benefactor is there with Stalin?” she asked.

  “Then we kill or capture him,” Milo said evenly. “Probably the former rather than the latter. A human prisoner is one thing, but the Guardian is probably going to be too difficult for us to transport easily.”

  “And we still don’t know exactly what kind of supernatural help this Guardian is giving Stalin?” Ambrose asked as he probed around his coat before drawing out his pipe and tobacco.

  “Only that he has incredible control over his followers,” Milo replied.

  Rihyani sighed. “That could be anything.”

  “Does the name Joseph mean anything?” Ambrose asked, giving Milo a sideways glance. “Or Ioseb Besa…a…”

  “Ioseb Besarionis dzе Jugashvili,” Milo said as they both turned to look at the fey.

  Rihyani shook her head.

  “Wouldn’t want it to be too easy, now, would we?” Ambrose said around the stem of the pipe between his teeth. “Besides, doesn't change what we have to do, does it?”

  “No,” Milo said, forcing himself to keep the confident smile on his face. “No, it doesn’t.”

  20

  The Message

  Milo was surprised to see a familiar face among the men Ambrose brought to the fortress the next day before late afternoon.

  To give the Red warlord time to gather his forces for a proper response, Milo thought it imperative that word of the arrival of a strong German contingent needed to be issued as soon as possible. As such, Milo had sent Ambrose to the village of Shatili to ask for local Bolsheviks and gather a few of them in the bed of the Rollsy for an introduction to the “German answer.” The men had not come willingly, of course, but few knocks on the head and a few lengths of rope, and Ambrose had come into the courtyard frog-marching three bound and rather terrified men.

  One of those men happened to be the farmer who’d sicced his dogs on Milo the night he’d been gathering hearth ash. The man didn’t seem to recognize the magus, which was not at all surprising, not only because of the nature of their encounter but also because of the figure standing next to him.

  “Are you ready for this?” Milo whispered out the side of his mouth.

  “Absolutely,” boomed a strong kettle-drum voice in thick German.

  The man who made the declaration could have been the impossible offspring of Lokkemand and Ambrose. He was huge, as tall or taller than the towering captain but with a bulky physique like that of his other “parent,” and upon his florid face sat a well-waxed mustache that would have left a walrus envious. He was dressed in an officer’s black coat festooned with medals and sporting the red-banded knotwork of an Oberstleutnant, or lieutenant colonel, upon his shoulders.

  “You’re very convincing,” Milo said with an appreciative dip of his chin.

  “Naturally,” rumbled the massive officer. Not for the first time, Milo had to keep his mind from reflecting on the considerably smaller fey inside the illusion. It was perhaps the least dramatic thing they’d be showing the erstwhile messengers, but it was the one Milo was most impressed by. She’d even woven a few shaving nicks onto the thick neck of her disguise.

  “Eyes front, Volkohne,” the Oberstleutnant puffed through his mustache, and Milo dutifully complied.

  The trio of men staggered before them, their faces set and angry while frightened eyes roved the stones around them.

  “What do you want with us?” the farmer Milo recognized asked, his voice convincingly steady.

  The man had some steel to him, there was no denying that.

  Milo made a show of looking at his superior, who nodded.

  “You’ve been brought here because we were notified that you were Bolshevik sympathizers and traitors to your own country,” Milo said, and he held back a smile as the protests and declarations sprang up like geysers.

  Milo held up a warning hand, and the men quieted—except the farmer who spat on the ground and thrust his chin toward Milo and the disguised Rihyani.

  “Execution, then?” he snarled, taking an angry step forward. “You invade our country and think you have the right to execute us?”

  “We were guests until a short time ago,” Rihyani declared in the booming German officer voice.

  All three men looked at the illusory officer with open trepidation, even the farmer, but Milo could tell they didn’t understand the words that had been said.

  “Oberstleutnant Hindenreich makes the point that we were only called invaders since the rise of the Bolshevik terrorist Stalin,” Milo explained in Georgian. “And it is for this reason he and his forces have now come to restore the rule of law.”

  All three looked around the seemingly barren fortress, but only the brave farmer had the courage to respond.

  “What forces?” he sneered. “Last we knew, you Germans were running north with your ears pinned back.”

  “That is why you are here now,” the Oberstleutnant declared and raised a hand to issue a ringing finger-snap.

  Every door in the fortress flew open and out marched streams of federated German soldiers, rifles at their shoulders or machine guns carried in teams. Milo’s and Rihyani’s wills working together ensured that the tromp of their boots, the smell of their sweat, and even the heat of their bodies brushed the senses of the three men. Milo had feared mounting pressure as the men sought to disbelieve what they saw, but even the farmer took the illusory information at face value. The marquis hadn’t been wrong about how much men trusted their senses in the face of what they might have otherwise disbelieved.

  The fabricated soldiers came to parade rest behind Rihyani and Milo, faces grim and eyes set forward. Perhaps soldiers might have noticed the fact that they were too perfect, but for the present company, the illusion worked fine.

  “You are going to bear witness,” Milo declared as he strode forward to put himself nearly nose to nose with the brave farmer. “You will return to your treacherous masters and tell them that the German Empire does not bow to threats and does not forsake its allies. You will be spared your miserable lives to deliver this message.”

  The farmer attempted to meet Milo’s pale eyes, but his gaze kept wandering to the arrayed soldiers, and the defiance leached from his face.

  Cowed, the farmer led the other two up the stairs and out onto the battlements. Ambrose, Milo, and Rihyani followed. They all looked out over the valley, the arms of the mountains sweeping to either side. For a moment nothing happened, and the three informants cast nervous looks around, glancing back behind at the courtyard where the soldiers stood and then at their captors. Ambrose grunted and pointed forward with a scowl that had all three turning back toward the valley.

  There was a deep rumble as though the earth itself was awakening to bear witness, then across the valley, engines of war made their appearance. Tanks, armored tracks, and artillery pieces growled and chugged and snarled as they mounted the slope and stood glittering darkly in the late afternoon sun. Meaningfully, their weapons were leveled downslope, where the village stood quiet and unsuspecting. It took a moment, but soon all three men were whimpering, praying, and begging.

  “My God,” one groaned. “No.”<
br />
  “My family,” another moaned.

  “Please,” the farmer cried, turning to Milo and falling to his knees. “Please, don’t do this.”

  Overheard was the throbbing whir of zeppelins plying the skies. Milo hadn’t expected those but pushed the thought from his mind as he looked into the informants’ terrified faces. Rihyani must have been adding last-minute flourishes.

  “Do you now understand the cost of treachery?” Milo asked, feeling a little queasy as he watched the men squirm and grovel. “Do you now know what you must do?”

  The farmer nodded vigorously, and the other two men followed suit as tears and snot ran freely down their faces.

  “Go and tell the Bolsheviks we are here and they are welcome to try and drive us out,” Milo commanded, nodding at Ambrose, who stepped forward to cut the men’s bonds. “And that if they don’t have the spine to defend their stolen prize, we will come and fetch them out like thieves from their den.”

  The men stared at their rope-worn wrists and stood trembling before Milo.

  “Now go!” Milo roared, driving a spike of raw fear through his will and into the heart of each man.

  Shivering and swearing on anything and everything they could think of, the men stumbled down from the battlements under the unflinching glare of the assembled soldiers. They found their feet as they passed through the gate and out onto the road, all three of them running wildly as their heads swiveled left and right.

  The sight of their fleeing backs sparked something in his chest in a place next to his heart. There was a tightness, a contraction that was as much psychic as muscular, and Milo found he couldn’t move, couldn't breathe. He wanted to scream, to gasp, but all control was gone. For an eternal second, Milo was locked inside himself, powerless to perform even the most basic and automatic functions, even as he felt his body cry out for air.

  Then a mind not his own slid up from that cavity inside him and took control. It expelled the stale air from his lungs and drew in a fresh breath before looking skyward at the zeppelins. Like clouds of steel and thunder, they’d flown low over the fortress, and Milo’s kidnapped eyes noted the way the barrels jutting from the gun turrets were now trained upon the fleeing informants.