World's First Wizard Complete Series Boxed Set

by Schneider, Aaron D.

  “I doubt you want me to punish you for everything the German Army’s ever done,” Milo remarked icily. “But regardless, I’m going to interrogate these prisoners, and I want them comfortable enough to share information.”

  “Captain said we were to keep them like this until he was ready to deal with ‘em,” the soldier growled, unable to hide his clenched jaw as he thrust his chin at the prisoners.

  “Are you refusing to comply with my direct order?” Milo asked.

  The soldier didn’t respond, only stared at him.

  Milo took a second to exhale slowly and keep any heat from his voice. His pale eyes flashed for an instant, but otherwise, there was no sign of his temper.

  “The first thing then will be for you to unbind them,” he said evenly, nodding at the prisoners without breaking eye contact. “And do so gently, please. I wouldn’t want to report that information was lost because you damaged them.”

  Milo saw the man’s eyes blaze in defiance and something came to his tongue to argue, but he checked himself at the very last second. His mouth clamped shut, and with his teeth grinding furiously, he moved to the first soldier and began to loosen the cords binding his hands.

  “Weird, isn’t it?” Ambrose muttered at Milo’s shoulder, his voice pitched for only the two of them. “Lokkemand being friendlier than he’s ever been, and the common soldiers are nastier than they’ve ever been.”

  Milo gave his bodyguard a sidelong glance as he watched the second prisoner be unbound. The naked man rubbed his wrists as he cringed on his chair.

  “It does seem that things are shifting,” Milo answered softly out the side of his mouth. “And certainly not for the better.”

  Ambrose nodded and leaned closer as the last prisoner was being untied.

  “I’ve got a feeling that we need to conduct our investigations outside the chain of command.”

  Milo listened to the suggestion without making a response. He could see the validity of it, but to accept it put certain things in doubt. After Lokkemand at least made the appearance of burying the hatchet, Milo felt it would seem rather uncooperative to go back to his old habits of sneaking around and working outside the command structure. Also, if things fell apart, as they were wont to do, wouldn’t that point the finger at him again?

  And there was still the nagging matter of Jorge’s confidence in Lokkemand. At dinner, it had seemed a simple, reasonable thing to be suspicious of Lokkemand, but now when it came to actions, it was not so simple. Would this be what finally changed Jorge’s mind about his usefulness?

  “Anything else, sir?” The German soldier sneered as he shuffled back from the prisoners. His expression was puckered and angry, made all the worse by the strong smell of ammonia now clinging to his boots.

  “Where are their clothes?” Milo asked.

  An ugly grin came to the man’s face.

  “Burned them, sir. Didn’t want anything catching to get around the camp.”

  Milo fought the urge to shove his fist a few centimeters through the man’s nose.

  “Then I suppose you will have to make yourself busy finding them something to wear,” Milo said, looking at the man imperiously. “And make sure it is warm enough since these men seem a bit chilled.”

  The guard’s body clenched as though he was bending his whole frame to keep from saying something. He settled for one snorting breath that might have been “Yes, sir” before he turned on his heel and left the tent. There was a long moment of quiet, the only sound the shivering breaths of the naked prisoners. Though autumn was upon them, it wasn’t that cold in the tent. Milo imagined a good deal of their unsteady respiration was due to fear.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Milo began, switching over to Russian. “I’m probably your closest thing to a friend here, and all I want to do is talk. Are you hungry?”

  He knew they were after one look at ribs pressing against their skin and the deflated sag of their sunken stomachs. They were starving, but he wanted, no, needed them to engage.

  The men blinked and looked at each other before all nodding at once.

  Milo nodded at Ambrose, who produced a round loaf of dark bread. With two quick twists, he tore the bread into pieces and stepped forward to hold them out to the three men. As he did so, Milo saw the Gewehr swaying on its strap over Ambrose’s shoulder, and the thought of one of the men lunging for the weapon in desperation became inescapable. Milo doubted any of them possessed the strength, even working together, to pry it from the Nephilim, but in the scuffle, the rifle could go off.

  Not liking the possible outcome of a rifle firing blindly in a crowded camp, Milo decided to ply the Art upon the men’s wills. It was a subtle, ticklish sort of magic, especially what he was trying, which amounted to all three prisoners suddenly finding everything about Ambrose incredibly boring and thus beneath their attention. It worked so well that the last prisoner almost didn’t notice the big man until he shoved the bread into his dirty hands.

  Milo gave them a moment to lavish ravenous attention on their food before he spoke again.

  “There is no reason there can’t be more than bread,” Milo said, meeting each man’s eyes over their last few bites. “Last night I ate some solyanka that was quite good, and if the mutters mean anything this morning, we’ll be eating something just as delicious for dinner. I don’t see why you three couldn’t have some.”

  It was an obvious ploy but seeded with just the right pressure from the Art to inflame their hunger, the words were silver in the ears of the prisoners. Their eyes became feverishly bright as they looked at each other. Milo noticed this time that two of them were looking intently at the smallest and oldest of the trio, a man whose stubble was gray and black, peppered with stark white. The man watched the world with the sort of pinched eyes that suggested lifelong spectacle use over a prominent nose and thick lips.

  The senior Soviet turned to Milo and spoke slowly in a rough voice barely above a whisper.

  “We would like that very much,” he said, then pointed to his throat. “But in the meantime, could we please get some water? We are all very thirsty.”

  Milo smiled and waved Ambrose forward. Having prepared this morning, the bodyguard had three full canteens waiting. He handed all three to the spokesman of the trio, who quickly gave two to the others. As soon as the canteens were distributed, the prisoners slurped down mouthful after mouthful, hardly pausing even as they choked and coughed on the greedily guzzled water.

  Milo gave them time to savor before he spoke again in a calm and reasonable voice.

  “I’m glad to see you are all reasonable sorts,” he said with a small smile. “Some soldiers aren’t nearly so reasonable, and that’s why I wanted to apologize for the rough handling you endured when you came. I didn’t save you on the road to Gzhatsk just to do this to you.”

  Again, he kneaded their wills with the Art. He was someone who saved them, decent and respectful. He felt all three of their wills give, though the senior Soviet was the least elastic. Still, Milo could tell that all three were becoming more tractable from Milo’s efforts juxtaposed with their earlier treatment.

  “We accept your apology,” the senior Soviet said after pawing off some water that had wet his fleshy lips. “And we understand that the generosity you’ve shown comes with certain expectations.”

  After the bread and water, the man seemed remarkably revived, affecting an air of authority at odds with his stature and current condition.

  Milo had to admit he was impressed. He wouldn’t have thought it possible for any man to look that resolute sitting naked on a chair he’d just been untied from.

  “I’m glad you’ve grasped the situation so quickly,” Milo said, the gentility slipping from the sharp edges of his tone. “The fact is, I don’t want to see you men put through more than you’ve already endured, but I can only make sure that doesn’t happen if you cooperate.”

  The senior Soviet looked at the other two, who watched him with large, pleading eyes. In an instant
, despite his manipulation, Milo knew those two would die at a word from the elder. They didn’t want to, but seeing the way they watched him, Milo knew if called to attack, even in their current state, they wouldn’t hesitate.

  The aged soldier nodded, then tilted his head back to suck the last few drops from his canteen. Milo noticed the bulge in the man’s stomach where the bread and water sat.

  “My name is Lev, and this is Fedor and Izac,” the senior Soviet said. “We were soldiers in the Red Army under the command of General-Commissar Trotsky.”

  “Were?” Milo asked with a single raised eyebrow before nodding at Ambrose to produce the next portion of their interrogation gambit. A bottle of schnapps and three pewter cups appeared from the Nephilim’s pack.

  Lev smiled, warmth touching his eyes as he took the first cup and threw back a healthy swallow.

  “Oh, that’s not bad.” He chuckled as color began to climb into his wan cheeks. “But yes, I said we were part of that army. It doesn’t exist anymore.”

  Fedor and Izac ducked their heads at the confession, barely raising their chins as they imbibed the liquor. From the droop of their shoulders and the way Izac kept blinking, Milo imagined these men weren’t forced conscripts, or if they were, they’d adopted the cause and were as good as volunteers now.

  The revelation wasn’t vital intelligence, but it at least it relieved him of the burden on his conscience that these might have been unwilling combatants.

  “Does that sort of thing happen often?” Milo asked as he nodded for Ambrose to dole out another round.

  “To the smaller bands, maybe.” Lev shrugged as he took a sip and then sniffed diffidently. “But not Trotsky. His army, like Stalin’s and Voroshilov’s, was originally formed after the Revolution began, and we’ve been fighting the Whites and their Cossack allies across Russia for nearly two decades.”

  Lev’s chest swelled as he made the declaration. Milo heard pride and anger in the man’s voice.

  “But not anymore?” Milo said and nodded at the men’s state of undress. “The army was disbanded?”

  Lev took a mouthful of schnapps and coughed, then shook his head hard enough to sling droplets of alcohol off his face.

  “No, no, not disbanded,” Lev corrected, his voice forceful and clear. “It was dismantled and absorbed by another force. You’d be closer to the truth to say it was devoured. The Red Army of Trotsky, our army, was decapitated and then gutted.”

  Milo stole a glance at Ambrose at the mention of decapitation.

  “Decapitated?” Milo wondered aloud. “What happened?”

  Lev had emptied his cup and was holding it out for more, a request acquiesced to with a nod from Milo. As Ambrose began to fill the glass, the wizard pushed a little harder and was pleased to see Lev’s stalwart will give a little more. It seemed sad stories and alcohol were the combination that loosened Russian tongues and wills.

  Lev took his schnapps and spent a moment staring into the cup before a magical nudge from Milo had him taking another belt.

  “After Stalin went and got himself killed or captured or whatever, a meeting was called.”

  Milo leaned forward eagerly, the Art rippling out in waves of reinforcing will. Lev wanted to tell his story; he needed to get it all off his chest. Izac and Fedor caught the wake of it, and Milo was glad to see them nodding eagerly, willing Lev to share their tale of woe.

  “Now, this meeting wasn’t among a few of us Reds, or all of the Reds, or all of the Reds and our allies,” the elder Soviet said, swaying a little as he leaned toward Milo. “It was supposed to be everyone: Reds, Whites, Cossacks, even some of the bandit chiefs who were big enough to merit attention. Everyone was to meet in Moscow.”

  Milo nodded, pushing Lev to keep drinking and talking. He imagined if things kept going, they’d need more drink and probably more food, but Milo would cross that bridge when he came to it. For now, he leaned into the performance.

  “So, Reds and Whites and a few of those bandits show up,” Lev said and paused to take another drink.

  “The Cossacks weren’t there?” Milo asked, daring a slight interruption for clarification.

  Lev shook his head and then leaned forward dangerously far, a finger pressed to his lips.

  “Shhh, don’t interrupt,” he chided and gave Milo a wink. “But I did hear that they were busy fighting amongst themselves. Something about the Bloody Baron or whatever, but it doesn’t matter because it wouldn't have changed what happened.”

  Milo fought the urge to verbalize the obvious question, nudging instead with the Art again. He felt a prickle on the back of his neck that something remarkable was coming, but it would take patience to draw out in its fullness.

  “So the meeting was called, and Reds and Whites stood in the same theatre without shooting each other.” Lev giggled and practically snorted into his cup. “More of them might have lived if they’d started with that.”

  “So, you were at the meeting?” Milo asked quickly, to which the elder Soviet nodded.

  “Trotsky’s second in command,” he muttered. “Right there in the damn theater.”

  Milo turned to check the bottle in Ambrose’s fist and saw the man mouth “theater” at him, but Milo could only shrug. As expected, when Milo turned back, he saw Lev holding out his cup for more. Ambrose complied without question, topping off the other two’s vessels as well. There wasn’t much schnapps left, and Milo was beginning to consider that he might need to send Ambrose off to find something else to drink.

  “But anyway,” Lev continued, drawing Milo’s full attention again, “the meeting was getting started, and despite some bickering, everyone knew something needed to be done because you Germans aren’t playing fair.”

  Milo realized Lev was glaring over his cup now, his pinched eyes watery but simmering with sudden anger.

  “Bad enough you scoop up pieces of the Empire like pebbles on a beach,” he hissed, spittle flecking his lips. “But then you press into the heart of Russia and not only with your armies, but with your promises and lies. You promise the future and get some gangster to build it for you!”

  Milo blinked, befuddled. Weren’t they talking about Moscow? What did Petrograd have to do with anything?

  “Well, he’s got all the help he needs to build that future now,” Lev snarled and twisted in his chair after throwing back the last of his schnapps. “Isn’t that right, boys? Isn’t it! I escape that rat slaughter of a meeting and find that Ephraim is in charge and is already mobilizing our forces to move to Petrograd. I’ll bet my left hand and a bit of my right that once they get there, he’ll give them all the same treatment! Bastards!”

  Milo looked at Izac and Fedor during the rant but only saw them nodding along, hot, angry tears rolling down their cheeks.

  “Who is Ephraim?” Milo asked, then took a step back as Lev surged to his feet. Milo felt Ambrose surge to his defense, but he waved him off with one hand when the older man didn’t advance.

  “Ephraim Sklyansky!” Lev snarled, throwing his cup to the fetid mud at his feet. “He was the second in command of the only true Red Army in all of Russia! Now he’s another tool of that gangster, that tattooed thug.”

  Lev stood on unsteady feet. Tears and snot ran freely down his flushed face, yet the wounded indignation that emanated from him was nothing short of majestic. Izac and Fedor clutched their heads but could not tear their eyes away.

  “I thought you said you were second in command?” Milo said.

  Lev’s face twisted. Enraged and drunk, he’d been caught in a lie. He wasn’t the second in command of Trotsky’s forces, but the obvious loyalty of the two men behind him bore out that he was a leader, and Milo believed him when he talked about the meeting.

  Lev’s and Milo’s eyes locked, and understanding passed between them.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, General-Commissar Trotsky,” Milo said softly. “Such a betrayal can’t be easy to bear.”

  Leon Trotsky deflated and shrank back in his seat, a
tired, naked, hungry old man once more.

  “I’m not sure it was a betrayal of me as much as a betrayal of nature,” he said, sliding his back against the chair and placing his hands on his knees. “I escaped the gas that filled the room by falling into the basement. I heard the others dying, Ephraim among them, yet when I finally crawled out of there and tried to reach my men, there was Ephraim.”

  Trotsky shivered then, gooseflesh spreading over his body.

  “I looked into his eyes, but he wasn’t the man I knew,” he muttered, his knuckles going white as he clenched his knees. “It was like something had crawled in and now lived behind those eyes. That thing denounced me as a traitor, and to my horror, I saw everything unraveling.”

  Trotsky hung his head and coughed and gave something like a sob that turned into a defeated laugh.

  “All the petty rivalries and perceived slights, all of it came up like vomit,” he cried in a wrenching croak. “And just like that, I was running for my life with only a few loyal soldiers beside me.”

  Izac and Fedor, their eyes dry now, squared their shoulders and thrust out their chests. They might have once been impressive specimens, but in their dilapidated state, their poses only made them seem more tragic.

  “This gangster,” Milo asked, feeling an impossible premonition nibbling at the back of his mind. “The tattooed one. Who is he?”

  Trotsky shrugged and shook his head, refusing to look up.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “He’s Russian, I could tell that from how he spoke, but he had a strange accent.”

  The ousted general looked out from under his brows at Milo.

  “Sounded a bit like yours.” He smirked, a sour, humorless expression.

  Milo felt tightness in his chest, and a place in his mind and heart hardened with refusal. He was being silly; it simply wasn’t possible. It was stupid to keep asking.

  Despite this condemnation, his eyes darted to Izac and Fedor, his mouth working in defiance of his rational mind.

  “What about you two?” he asked. “Did you hear anything?”