World's First Wizard Complete Series Boxed Set

by Schneider, Aaron D.

  “Always.” Milo laughed and allowed himself to be drawn into another kiss.

  9

  These Expectations

  “It would’ve been great if Lokkemand had seen your little display,” Ambrose muttered as they rolled into the camp outside Sergio-Ivanoskye. “It probably would make this next part easier.”

  “I doubt it.” Milo yawned, knowing he should be more concerned than he felt. “Lokkemand’s never lacked appreciation for my power.”

  Ambrose snorted as the kubelwagen pitched and yawed over the mounded earth that broke up the approach to the central palisade ring.

  “Just lacks a healthy fear of it,” Ambrose said, his mustache doing an anxious little dance.

  Milo shrugged, recognizing that fatigue was contributing to his nonchalance rather than any sort of maturation where the captain was concerned. He didn’t have the energy to hate him.

  “I think he’s terrified of your power,” Rihyani shared as Schultz slung the kubelwagen around to park in front of the wooden wall. “He understands better than most what you are capable of, and it scares him to no end.”

  It was Ambrose’s turn to shrug.

  “It makes a sort of sense,” he muttered as he stood and stretched. “What do you think, Magus?”

  Milo shook his head as he rose and managed to pour himself out of the kubelwagen onto the muddy ground. Right then, he felt that Lokkemand could have hated him for his eye color, and he couldn’t have cared less. He was hungry and tired and wanted nothing more than to fill his belly and then collapse.

  “Hey, Schultz, Pfeiffer,” he called, his voice raw and peevish even in his own ears. “Where can I get some food?”

  The garrulous pair had been silent since Ambrose and Rihyani had led Milo back to where the caravan waited on the road. Their banter had been absent on the drive to the camp, but the wizard had been too weary and distracted by hunger to notice. Now Milo could practically smell the aura of fear emanating from the two soldiers.

  Fear of Milo, of De Zauber-Schwartz.

  “Look alive, soldiers!” Ambrose barked with the bristling authority of a training sergeant. “An officer asked you a question.”

  Both men continued to stare at Milo with a mixture of terror and loathing worked into the lines of their faces. A rumble that would have done the monstrous Borjikhan proud resounded in Ambrose’s chest, and both soldiers straightened and squared to attention, their gazes locking forward.

  “The mess is located in the eastern corner by the village,” Pfeiffer announced in a professional tone so sharp it nearly cut Milo’s ears. “But we were supposed to make sure that you met with the captain first.”

  Ambrose looked at Milo, who gave a heavy nod as Rihyani slid up next to him, a silent yet strong support.

  “Might as well get it over with.”

  Ambrose turned to the two soldiers, standing rigid as poles in front of him.

  “Well, you heard him,” he barked. “Take us to your leader.”

  * * *

  “Captain Lokkemand,” Milo said as he took in the familiar sight of Lokkemand standing over an expansive map while aides punched typewriters. “I appreciate you sending an escort to pick us up.”

  Lokkemand rose from his maps to look down at Milo, herculean and stoic. The captain’s gray eyes bored into the magus, a scrutiny that left him feeling even more tired and exposed.

  In the months since they’d last parted ways, Milo had forgotten how tall and powerful the captain was, and he remembered the single punch that one massive fist had delivered, which set his chest to aching. Milo tried to remind himself that he’d intimidated an ancient monster like the Borjikhan into flight. Right then, looking at the towering captain took all the fight out of him.

  Let Lokkemand jab him with verbal barbs or rail against him. Milo wasn’t going to fight back.

  “I understand that not only was the escort late in arriving,” Lokkemand said gravely, “but that when they did arrive, they stumbled into an ambush.”

  It was not the opening salvo Milo had expected, which left his fatigue-burdened brain struggling to catch up.

  “Yes, uh, well, they weren’t the only ones who came under fire,” Milo managed with a shrug. “And I’m not sure it was an ambush so much as the Reds were fleeing from one thing and seemed to think we might object if they kept running.”

  “Yes, I see,” Lokkemand said, rubbing his jaw as he sucked his teeth. “Well, regardless, I wanted to first apologize for their tardiness and ineptitude before thanking you for getting them out of there alive.”

  Milo stood dumbstruck. This was not going how he had expected at all. Too tired to be surreptitious, he looked over at Ambrose, who seemed just as gobsmacked. Rihyani caught his eye, and she nodded meaningfully at the waiting captain.

  “Oh, er, you’re welcome, Captain,” Milo stammered, forcing himself to smile and nod appreciatively. “And there is nothing to forgive. Such things are part of the fortunes of war, right?”

  Something pained, almost desperate, flitted behind Lokkemand’s eyes, but it disappeared in an instant as a smile broke across his face.

  “Well said. Fortunes of war indeed.” He beamed. “Now, I’m sure that you are all tired and hungry and in need of some time to get yourselves settled. We can review possible operations tomorrow when you are ready, but I insist you spend some time recovering.”

  At that moment, Milo could have kissed the man, but he settled for a loose-jointed salute.

  “Yes, sir,” the wizard mumbled. “You don’t even have to insist.”

  Lokkemand’s smile held and he even threw a wink, something Milo would have previously thought the man’s granite features were incapable of.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” the captain said as he returned the salute. “Dismissed.”

  Milo turned to leave, giving the wide-eyed Ambrose a wondering shake of his head as he did so.

  “Volkohne,” Lokkemand called, and Milo turned on the spot.

  This was it.

  “Yes, Captain?”

  This was where the other shoe dropped.

  Lokkemand struggled to meet Milo’s eye, his gaze wandering down to the table or off to the side of the tent as he spoke.

  “I know that in the past we had our problems,” he began, his lips peeling back as he sucked his teeth again, “but I can’t deny that you’ve accomplished great things for the Empire.”

  Milo wasn’t sure what he could say in response to that, so instead, he just watched as Lokkemand struggled through.

  “I am a soldier in a long line of soldiers, and perhaps that’s why your unique perspective on authority is very difficult for me,” he continued, arms rigid at his sides and back painfully straight. “But regardless, you get results, and as a military man, I can appreciate that, and I do appreciate it. How you came out of Georgia was nothing short of commendable.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Milo said, certain this was an appropriate time to say something. “I couldn’t have done it without these two, but we all appreciate the recognition.”

  Despite himself, Milo had begun to feel sorry for the captain. This couldn’t have been easy, but he was making a go of it in front of Ambrose, Rihyani, and his staff. That wasn’t a small thing.

  Milo stole a quick look at his companions to confirm their appreciative expressions. Rihyani nodded with the sort of elegant nobility he’d come to expect from her. Ambrose seemed not as ready to bury the hatchet, bushy brows lowered in plain suspicion as his mouth twisted into a lopsided frown. He caught Milo’s eye, and for a single instant, the two were locked in a battle of wills.

  The wizard leaned his head slightly toward Lokkemand, and Ambrose’s eyes narrowed. Milo kept his head at that angle as he held Ambrose’s gaze, but it was a near thing when Ambrose finally relented. Milo heaved a heavy sigh as his bodyguard bobbed his head in a curt display of affirmation. It wasn’t much, but Lokkemand took it well enough, returning the nod eagerly.

  “I hope that from here on
out, we can work together in light of this new mutual understanding and respect,” he said, his face folding into a warmly expectant smile.

  The olive branch was now fully extended.

  “Absolutely, sir,” Milo said, returning the smile with one that was far weaker but no less genuine for that. If this reconciliation took much longer, Milo was certain Ambrose would have to carry him out.

  “I’m glad to hear it,” the captain said, looking away quickly, but not before Milo caught that same pained look in the man’s eyes. He doubted then whether he could ever fully appreciate what the moment had cost Lokkemand, but he valued it all the same. This was the first time that he could remember someone in authority acknowledging their mistakes and seeking to move forward in light of that.

  Milo wished he wasn’t so faint so he could savor it.

  “Go get something to eat, Volkohne. That’s an order,” Lokkemand said with a brief but sincere smile.

  “Yes, sir,” Milo muttered, meaning it for perhaps the first time.

  * * *

  “I don’t like it,” Ambrose rumbled as he plopped another bowl of stew in front of Milo. “There’s something off about the man.”

  Milo’s mouth watered and his teeth itched eagerly as he dragged the bowl to himself. This was his third helping of the hearty and pungent solyanka stew, but he knew he’d give this one as much ravenous attention as the last two.

  “Come here, darling,” Milo cooed as he dug out a thick spoonful.

  “Magus, are you listening?” Ambrose growled as he thumped down on the bench opposite him.

  Milo looked up from his spoon with a scowl before shoving it between his lips emphatically. The potent yet pleasing combination of sweet and sour hit his tongue as his jaws began to chew through the multiple glorious meats in the composite stew. He found it impossible to keep his scowl as he chewed, but he spared Ambrose a long sideways look as he savored the bite.

  “I’m not saying it wasn’t a surprise,” Milo said around a mouthful before a few more chews, and a swallow cleared things up. “But Jorge himself said he respected Lokkemand, and this is probably part of why. He’s not quick about it, but he can admit he’s wrong.”

  Ambrose shook his head and ground his teeth, raking his spoon back and forth across his bowl.

  “Saying he’s sorry, which he didn’t directly do, I might add, would be about a tactical error or something like that,” Ambrose explained, his eyes darting around as he leaned forward to impart in a conspiratorial whisper, “If he’d told you to go left and he should have sent you right, I could see that Lokkemand might have the decency to apologize, but this isn’t that sort of situation.”

  Milo had put away a few more bites and was raising his spoon for another when he paused and looked at Ambrose over the steaming lump before him.

  “What sort of situation is this?” he asked before taking in the bite.

  Ambrose battered the contents of his bowl a little more before pushing it to the side to tap the table with one thick finger.

  “He excused your disrespect and your flouting of the hierarchy,” he hissed, leaning so far forward his thick, muscle-banded stomach pressed the table edge. “Officers born and bred with blue blood in their veins and iron in their souls don’t do that. Hierarchy defines them.”

  Milo swallowed his bite and looked at Rihyani for support.

  The fey had eaten only half a bowl of the stew before handing it to Milo, and since then had been puffing lightly on her cigarillo, not saying much but listening intently.

  Seeing Milo’s look, she let out a long ribbon of smoke, then glanced at the bodyguard.

  “I’m with Milo on this one, Ambrose,” she said with a helpless shrug. “I think Jorge is the sort to see the value of an officer who is strong and resolute, yet humble and mentally flexible enough to see where he’s wrong.”

  Milo, munching happily, turned to Ambrose with a smug smile, but he stopped smiling when he saw the veins grow thick and ropy at Ambrose’s temples as his face reddened.

  “But he’s not wrong, and that’s the point!” Ambrose growled, his teeth working the words between his clenched jaws. “Fact is, from a military standpoint, we were repeatedly insubordinate, and if anyone apologizes, it should be us, which is why this doesn't make any sense!”

  Milo resignedly put down his spoon and raised his hands to squeeze his temples. He had begun to rally around the food in his belly, but now it only made him feel sluggish and uncomfortably dense as he sat staring at Ambrose.

  “I’m not sure what you are getting at,” he said slowly, spreading his hands out before Ambrose as though waiting for a gift. “What doesn’t make any sense?”

  Ambrose opened his mouth, teeth bared, but promptly shut it and took a steadying breath. When he began again, his voice was noticeably lower and slower.

  “Lokkemand could apologize for giving you a bad order or bad command,” Ambrose said, each word measured carefully. “Any good officer could and would do that.”

  “Okay,” Milo said, rotating his open hands to signal Ambrose to continue.

  “What Lokkemand would never do is excuse or be apologetic about you not following orders,” Ambrose said, the words coming out even heavier and slower than before. “Soldiers follow orders, even bad ones, and Lokkemand would never, ever accept or apologize for not understanding our insubordination. There is no way he believes that hog spit about ‘unique perspectives on authority.’”

  “Why say it, then?” Rihyani asked, tapping ash into her empty bowl. “He didn’t have to say any of it, so why did he?”

  Ambrose rocked back and shrugged his shoulders.

  “I haven’t a clue.” He sighed and dragged his bowl back in front of him. “That’s part of what’s eating at me.”

  Milo took up his bowl but found himself twirling the spoon between his fingers as he digested more than several helpings of meat.

  “He didn’t have to say it, but he did,” he began, eyes focusing on the middle distance. “And he didn’t mean what he said, but he said it trying to sound genuine. That all adds up to one thing, doesn’t it?”

  Ambrose and Rihyani looked at each other and then at Milo, bemusement stamped on their oddly juxtaposed features.

  “What?” they asked in unison.

  “He’s trying to manipulate us to get us to trust him, maybe even let our guard down?”

  Ambrose’s mouth became a grim line barely visible beneath his mustache, while Rihyani’s eyes narrowed, golden pupils flashing.

  “Why would he do that?” she asked with the barest hint of a feline snarl in her throat.

  Milo shrugged as he dug up another hearty spoonful and held it before him.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted slowly as he considered. “But regardless, we can’t let our guard down.”

  He suddenly didn’t feel quite so enamored with the meal, though intellectually he knew it was a fine culinary creation. He’d lost his enthusiasm, but he eyed the bite and the rest of the bowl with determination. He took the bite with gusto, ripping flesh between his teeth.

  “We can’t afford to trust,” Milo stated as he swallowed and looked doggedly at his bowl. “With the Shepherds and the Reich, there’s too much at stake.”

  He was going to finish the whole thing. He had a feeling he was going to need it.

  10

  These Fragments

  The Russians who had surrendered to them on the road were probably wishing they’d reconsidered their options.

  At least Milo would have felt that way if he were them, naked and bound to chairs hand and foot, shivering in a tent stinking of fear and urine.

  After a night’s rest, Rihyani had stated she would take stock of the area using her fey wiles, which left Milo and Ambrose to see to the prisoners.

  Both men felt their eyes watering as they stepped into the cloud of stink, but that was nothing compared to the hard knot that formed in their chests at the pathetic sight. Milo was unfamiliar with the vagaries of war, bu
t the scene turned his stomach, and he was certain that something was wrong.

  Ambrose wasn’t nearly so ambivalent.

  “These are prisoners of war,” Ambrose snarled to the soldiers standing guard. “Soldiers of enemy armies are to be treated according to the Hague Conventions.”

  The guard frowned and looked past Ambrose at the prisoners, his lip curling.

  “What does the Hague say about bandits?” the guard shot back. “Or murderers and rapists?”

  Ambrose looked at the men sniffling and quaking on the chairs.

  “What do you mean?”

  The soldier’s eyes were chips of ice in a mask of leathery skin, his features blank but with subtle trembles of tension in his neck and arms. Milo knew the look of a man who’d seen enough that he had armored himself within, but the hardening hadn’t come soon enough. He was drowning inside that mental armor as unhealed traumas filled it from within.

  Yes, Milo was intimately familiar with that look.

  “These are Reds, belonging to one Soviet commander or another.” The guard spat at the center of the tent. “For years, their kind has been ripping through these parts before wandering east to fight the Whites. If we handed them over to the villagers, they wouldn’t be nearly so hospitable.”

  Ambrose frowned and glanced at Milo, his consternation unspoken but written on his face.

  “How do you know these men did those things?” Milo asked, staring at the men, his mind caught between imagining himself in their position and seeing Commissar Beria’s face on each man.

  “They were wearing the same uniform.” The soldier shrugged. “There is little difference between one Slavic rat or another.”

  A rumble in Ambrose’s chest rose to challenge the statement, but Milo stilled the oncoming tirade with a raised hand. The guard started to smirk but stopped as he came under the wizard’s piercing stare.