Witchmarked (World's First Wizard Book 1)

by Aaron D. Schneider

  “I suppose they’ll hang me for three easy as two,” Jules chuckled, and the dark laugh was taken up by his cronies.

  The bulky man let out a weary, almost sad sigh, then surged forward with a speed that was terrifying to witness and seemed impossible for his ponderous frame. He smashed into Jules, though whether with his fist, shoulder, or wide stomach, it was too fast to tell. The only thing that was certain was that Jules, a brawny fellow by most standards, went flying through the air. He collided with the man holding the knife on the quartermaster, and both of them tumbled into the foremost stack of crates in a lumpy, grunting heap.

  Then things became disorderly.

  Milo used the distraction to put a knee in one of his captors’ groins and swept the winded man’s leg with a stomping kick to the shin. The unfortunate thug fell back heavily, and Milo used his newly freed hand to jam a thumb into the other one’s eye. The man screamed and instinctively twisted away, letting Milo come away from the wall. No longer pinned down, he gave the reeling, half-blinded man a hard shove that sent him staggering right into the path of the advancing form of the big interloper.

  The man, who he had only now put together as his bodyguard, grabbed Milo's would-be captor by the arm and gave a short, sharp twist. There was a wet snap, and the man’s arm bent at a wholly unnatural joint. The man gave a thin, shrill scream and the arm hung useless, the pick handle tumbling free. The bodyguard scooped the bludgeon up, and with a nod, tossed it to Milo.

  “Be a good boy and clean up after yourself,” he instructed the man staggering to his feet, one hand cradling the damaged goods between his thighs.

  Without waiting to see the outcome, the big man advanced on the two brutes grappling with the quartermaster.

  Milo hefted the pick handle, savoring the solid weight as he stepped toward the stricken wretch. With one look at his compatriot on the floor, the man took a wild swing at Milo that was easily deflected, then executed a limping vault over Kasper’s crawling form as they both made for the door.

  Milo almost went after him, eager to let the man taste the hardwood stick, but he heard an angry bellow that drew his attention back across the room. Jules was on his feet, one side of his face sporting an ugly purple mass. The bayonet was still in his hand, and with murder in his eyes, he advanced on Milo’s bodyguard, who was hoisting a thug in each hand as though they were naughty puppies.

  Gripping the handle in both hands, Milo bounded toward Jules. Hoping to catch him off-guard, Milo made a wild swing at the man’s head, but something alerted him at the last second. Swaying like a snake away from the blow, he wrong-footed Milo and lunged in, bayonet plunging for the guts. Milo checked his advance and scrambled back to avoid being spitted.

  “I’m going to carve off your face and stitch it onto a handkerchief,” Jules frothed, lashing and probing with the long-bladed knife. “Then when I send it to Roland, he can blow his nose in your pretty face whenever he wants.”

  Milo batted away a swipe with the cudgel, but the strike was a feint, and he lurched back. Jules leapt forward, and the blade missed Milo’s nose by less than an inch.

  “Maybe not.” Jules huffed, flicking the blade around to tease Milo. “Maybe I’ll have your face sewn onto trousers instead. What do you say, little bird? Front or back?”

  In a desperate gambit, Milo swept a blow low, knowing Jules could avoid it easily. When he did, Milo pulled the swing upward, connecting with the thug’s chin as he leapt to the attack. Jules’s head snapped back, and he rocked back on his heels. Reversing the swing, Milo brought the cudgel crashing back down, and the teetering brute collapsed to the floor in a boneless heap.

  Panting with shock as much as exertion, Milo looked around and saw the fight was over.

  The quartermaster was nursing a wrenched wrist, rolling it back and forth, while Milo’s bodyguard stood watching his charge with an appraising eye. At his feet were the two who’d been grappling with the quartermaster, along with their knife-wielding friend. All three were so still, it took Milo a moment of staring to realize they were still breathing.

  A look over his shoulder told him the man with the broken arm had joined his bruised compatriot and Kasper in flight.

  Milo’s hands began to shake, and he gripped the club to calm himself.

  “Not bad.” The big man sidled over to Milo, making a bit of a show as he stepped over Jules. “Footwork’s atrocious, but that pulled strike wasn’t anything to complain about.”

  Up close, Milo realized that though the man matched or outweighed a titan like Captain Lokkemand, he was shorter than Milo by half a head.

  “Simon Ambrose,” he intoned, wiping a hand on the hem of his jacket and then extending the huge paw. “At your service, sir.”

  Milo gawked at being called “sir” so long that Ambrose began to withdraw his hand. Shaking his head to clear the aftershock, Milo awkwardly thrust a hand out, which the big man took in a crushing grip.

  “Milo Volkohne,” he muttered numbly.

  “Oh, I know.” Ambrose chuckled, his green eyes twinkling. “Now we best get you sorted with the quartermaster. Coat looks good on you, by the way.”

  4

  An Operation

  “Afghanistan?” Milo shouted over the chugging diesel engine. “Where’s that?”

  In the orphanage, his schooling had been basic, to put it mildly. Milo was keenly aware of that, but since he was headed there with Ambrose and Lokkemand’s team, he couldn’t let embarrassment stand in the way of gathering intelligence.

  “Somewhere between the Devil’s backside and Hell’s chamber pot,” his bodyguard growled without opening his eyes. The boulder of a man had parked himself next to Milo, folded his hands over his belly, and shuttered his eyes as though set for a long nap. Apparently, he woke up to offer useless geographic insights.

  Lokkemand, who seemed to experience only the unique emotion of perpetual annoyance, rolled his eyes and set about unfurling a map on his lap. It took a minute longer since the truck bed rocked as they crossed a cavernous pothole.

  “Afghanistan is a Mohammedan kingdom on the other side of Persia,” he explained, his words sharp and irritated even through the rumbling of the vehicle they rode in. “Their emir rejected overtures by both the Kaiser and the Ottomans some time ago, and since then, we’ve been obliged to waste troops fighting the heathen and their British allies in their miserable caves.”

  “Caves?” Milo asked as he watched Lokkemand’s finger trace a quick circle around the nation in question.

  “Nearly half the wretched place is jagged heaps of rock,” Ambrose said, allowing one eye to slide open enough to squint in Milo’s direction. “And if that weren’t enough, those rocks have holes in them. One giant worms’ nest.”

  “You’ve been there?” Milo asked.

  Ambrose’s eye snapped shut, and he made the sound of a snore in answer.

  “We aren’t going there for a holiday,” Lokkemand observed dryly, ignoring the bodyguard’s antics. “We are going there so you can make contact with a nonconforming asset.”

  “One of the monsters?” Milo asked, unable to keep the eager tremble out of his voice.

  “Nonconforming. Asset.” Lokkemand said, each word punctuated as hard as a punch. “That is what it is.”

  “But Colonel Jorge…” Milo began but stopped when he saw the baleful look in the captain’s eyes.

  “Colonel Jorge is a senior officer and a mentor,” Lokkemand explained, his words so precise and sharp they might have been used as surgical implements. “But during this operation, you will answer to me. Due to your unique...station, many liberties have been afforded you, but you need to understand that this is my mission.”

  To facilitate the point, the strapping officer reached over and tapped the topmost pentacle on Milo’s cap sharply. Milo smothered the instinctive response of throwing a fist into the bigger man’s throat.

  “You may be the star of this little production, Volkohne,” he said grimly. “But for now you
are on my stage, and it is your job to make sure I’m happy with the performance. Understood?”

  Milo glared at him but nodded.

  “I’m sorry,” Lokkemand said, raising a hand to his ear. “I couldn’t hear you.”

  Milo ground his teeth together and sucked in a breath. It seemed some aspects of military life didn’t change even for burgeoning wizards.

  “Yes, sir!” he barked over the engine, and Ambrose gave a convincing snuffle as though he’d just been awoken.

  “We’der’yet?” he grumbled, blinking and pawing at his face as he sat up.

  “And this,” Lokkemand said with a curl of his lip toward Ambrose, “is also part of your job. Make certain this deserting scum keeps to his duties and nothing else. If he steps out of line, either you deal with it or I will, with the understanding you won’t be getting a new pet anytime soon. Keep your guard dog on a short leash.”

  “Bow-wow,” Ambrose remarked coolly, meeting Lokkemand’s glare with defiant indifference.

  The captain held the look long enough that Milo felt certain something might catch fire if it passed through the tension crackling between the two men.

  To Milo’s surprise, it was Lokkemand who broke away from the exchange first, turning back to Milo positively bristling.

  “Once you make contact with the nonconforming asset, you will engage in whatever instruction is offered. Colonel Jorge has invested a great deal in securing cooperation from the asset, and as such, you will make every effort to excel. Not just your life and freedom, but the solvency of the Nicht-KAT is at stake.”

  “Yes, sir,” Milo replied, wary of the furious gleam in the captain’s eye. “I understand.”

  “Your personal reservations and preferences mean nothing,” Lokkemand continued. “The asset is to be appeased, and you are to learn everything you can. Keep records and be thorough since you will be expected to pass any and all information back to me.”

  Milo frowned, feeling as though this was turning into a school assignment rather than a face-first plunge into the world of the supernatural. Lokkemand possessed a knack for sucking the joy out of everything he touched, which perhaps explained his perpetual perturbance.

  “We’ve come to understand that these assets do not value things as a more rational mind would,” Lokkemand warned, settling back against his seat. “As such, there is always that one who will decide this arrangement is not to their liking, and you may find your well-being at risk. If such does occur, it is your duty to return to our base of operations at Bamyan, or barring that, ensure the records you’ve kept are returned.”

  “He’d hate to go to all this trouble for nothing,” Ambrose chuckled.

  “Do you understand the parameters of the operation?” Lokkemand asked, pointedly ignoring the bodyguard.

  Milo swallowed, trying to remember every instruction given to him in the last few minutes. It seemed to him that there were large gaps left in regard to procedures, but he supposed this operation was strongly results-based. Milo had to learn magic, and despite Lokkemand’s rigid manner, he understood that it didn’t matter much how it was achieved.

  Was this what it took to learn from the dark?

  “Yes, sir,” Milo answered, unable to shake the disquieting feeling settling over his shoulders.

  Milo looked out the train’s window as they chugged along the coast of the Caspian Sea, nearly a week out from that first debriefing as they left Zabrze in a small convoy of trucks.

  Since the day that had ended in them boarding the first of many trains, Lokkemand had been scarce, busying himself with the entourage of communication officers and technicians and administrative assistants who made up the rest of the team. When he did appear like some looming, black-wrapped specter, it was to instruct Milo on the next leg of their travels. Every time he spoke, it seemed he had refined his repertoire of instructions to use fewer words to communicate the necessary information.

  Given his feelings toward the captain, he appreciated the officer’s practiced communication skills.

  Still, Lokkemand could learn a thing or two about terseness from his underlings. The other members of the team met Milo’s presence with stony silence, so he quickly learned that talking to them was an exercise in futility. Whatever gossip or storytelling they were engaged with immediately came to a stop when Milo appeared and would resume as soon as he began to depart. Questions were answered with simple nods, headshakes, or not at all. Once one of them had pointed him in the direction of the water closet on the train, but that aberration was never repeated.

  As a result, Milo had no choice but to amuse himself with Simon Ambrose in what was proving to be a rather uneven series of exchanges. Despite the incredible explosion of physical prowess displayed when they first met, Ambrose was one of the most slothful creatures Milo had ever met. Peculiar for a bodyguard, he spent a good deal of time sleeping or at least pretending to sleep, and the fact that Milo still couldn’t tell the difference was troubling.

  Eyes closed and hands folded over his belly, Ambrose whiled away hours and hours, politely declining whenever Milo asked if they could engage in some distraction such as cards, dice, or even a smoke. If Milo did catch Ambrose while he was humoring the world with consciousness, the man would listen to Milo’s grievances with a sympathetic ear. He offered consoling noises and platitudes but he never joined in, violating the time-honored tradition of soldiers whining about their situations.

  Milo slipped deeper into melancholy, until finally on that train skirting the inland sea, his reserve broke.

  “Why did Lokkemand call you a deserter?”

  Ambrose had been timing his snores with the rhythm of the train, but the grinding exhalations stopped as Milo finished the question. One eye slid open, pitching a bushy eyebrow upward.

  Milo stared at him, refusing to hide from the pressure of the big man’s cyclopean gaze. He wasn’t sure, but he could have sworn he felt a thickening of the air, almost a pressure emanating from his bodyguard. In a way he didn’t quite understand, Milo pushed back against the pressure, feeling a strange etheric ripple in response.

  Ambrose’s other eye popped open, and he regarded Milo for a second longer before closing his eyes again and baring his teeth in a dangerous smile.

  “Well, will wonders never cease.” Ambrose grunted, straightening in his seat. “I think we’re going to get somewhere with you, Volkohne.”

  Whether it was nerves or isolation making him raw, Milo couldn’t hide his habitual wince at the surname he despised.

  “What’s that about?” Ambrose asked, then covered his mouth. “It’s not my breath, is it? Damned if my gustation doesn’t get uppity from time to time, and that gives me fierce halitosis.”

  “No, not that,” Milo said quickly, though he couldn’t now escape the realization that Ambrose often smelled like pickled meat. “It’s just I don’t much like that last name.”

  Ambrose’s brows gathered into a single furry knot.

  “Care to illuminate me on that one?”

  “Well,” Milo began but stopped and gave Ambrose a sly look. “How about you answer my question first, and then we’ll see if I’m up to sharing, eh?”

  Ambrose met Milo’s eye and a passing feeling of that same pressure began to congeal between them, but then the bodyguard gave a low chuckle and shook his head in surrender.

  “You win.” He grunted again, then reached inside his tortured coat and drew out a small leather wallet and a pipe. “But I think I’ll need a smoke for this conversation.”

  Milo watched forlornly as the big man packed his pipe. Ambrose noticed the look and offered him the wallet, which had both tobacco and rolling papers. A pair of match strikes later, the cabin was full of aromatic smoke.

  “Never had anything like this,” Milo noted after a lazy exhale, savoring the sweet, velvety flavor of the smoke.

  “English Cavendish with coconut and rum,” Ambrose grunted as he took a long draw on his pipe, something old and sad swimming behind his e
yes. “Traded an entire lorry of munitions for this pouch.”

  He tipped his head back and blew a titanic ring, then smiled through the trailing tendrils.

  “Absolutely worth it.”

  Milo took another drag and cleared his throat.

  “Deserter?” he prompted.

  Ambrose shook his head.

  “I believe the words our good captain used were ‘deserting scum,’” the big man corrected, then tapped the stem of his pipe on his lip thoughtfully. “Though I suppose if I had to choose between the two, I’d take your version.”

  Milo threw a wry look to his bodyguard, prompting a nod of admission.

  “I’m stalling, yes,” Ambrose confessed. “I’m not sure how much needs to be shared at the moment. Sensitive subject and all, you understand?”

  “Not hardly.” Milo sighed, massaging a spot between his eyes with his thumb. “And we aren’t getting any closer to me understanding at this rate.”

  Ambrose switched the pipe from one side of his mouth to the other and let out paired contrails through his nostrils.

  “Captain Lokkemand, along with the entire Federated Army of the German Empire, is operating under false pretenses,” he explained. “I can only be a deserter if I swore service to the empire or was conscripted as a citizen of the empire. As neither is true, I’m merely an expatriate caught up in a case of mistaken identity.”

  Milo frowned, and his eyes wandered to the archaic Prussian uniform.

  “So, is this some sort of political statement?” he asked, gesturing to the faded blue fabric and dingy brass buttons. “A protest against the unification of your country?”

  Ambrose looked down at his uniform as if considering it for the first time.

  “Not my country.” He shrugged. “Prussians, Bavarians, Saxons, and every last gutter-tongued Hun can call themselves whatever they want. I just put the thing on a few years ago and haven’t seen fit to replace it.”