Witchmarked (World's First Wizard Book 1) by Aaron Schneider (my reading book .txt) 📕

for a life he fell out of love with more each day. There had been nothing else but to survive without hope or reason. Nothing to live for. Nothing more.

But now there was more.

Terror, danger, and quite possibly madness, but oh, so much more.

That realization galvanized him, awakening him for the first time in a very long time until he was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. However dark, there was wonder and mystery in the world once more, and what was better, he, humanity’s first wizard, could seek it out and experience it.

Colonel Jorge had instructed him to report downstairs to the captain for further instruction and to be outfitted as part of an investigative team. The captain had been waiting at the bottom of the stairs, as dour as ever, and wasting no time in ordering Volkohne to report to the woman with the severe bangs. Once there, she’d asked him for his uniform measurements, which he could not remember quickly enough to avoid more sour glares. Scowling beneath her burdensome shelf of hair, she tugged a completed requisition out of her typewriter and practically threw it at Milo, who realized that in spite of everything, he was smiling broadly.

Form in hand, he returned to Lokkemand, who headed out of the building without comment, Milo scrambling after him. Two blocks down the street toward the park, a small supply depot had been set up in the shell of a mortar-scoured building. A squat, canvas-back truck that had not been there when they’d passed the structure earlier sat idling in front of the building, its tailgate hanging down in what seemed naïve expectation.

Within the depot, a Blackcoat quartermaster and a colonial soldier stood at the head of a room crammed with rows of crates and boxes, a rough-topped table between them. The quartermaster was berating the colonial in a profane and impressive mix of German, Russian, and Polish. The colonial took the verbal lashing, which seemed to center around appropriate clearance and paperwork, with much grinding of his bared yellow teeth, and he seemed ready to respond in something quite contrary to the supposed spirit of unity. He stopped when he noticed Lokkemand standing there. He sized up the captain at a glance, and seeing the balance was not in his favor, turned to leave. Milo, still basking in the glow of his recent revelation, didn’t notice the sharp, low look that came into the man’s eyes as he spotted the new magician on his way out.

Lokkemand grunted an instruction for Milo to hand the form to the glowering quartermaster, a stout man with an impressive if lopsided mustache who took the paper with a huff. He scanned the missive, then raised an eyebrow and looked from Lokkemand to Milo and back before he set off among the rows of crates, muttering blasphemies and curses in several languages.

Outside they heard the truck rumble to life and then set off with a congested blat.

“Get sorted and then wait here,” Lokkemand had instructed. “I’ll send your bodyguard to collect you shortly.”

“Bodyguard?” Milo asked, emerging from the happy haze for the first time since leaving Jorge’s presence too late.

Lokkemand was gone.

So it was that Milo stood in the depot, mind aching and whirling with wonder, yet never happier. He was so lost in thought, he was nearly bowled over when the quartermaster returned and tossed a canvas bag into his chest. Fumbling like a drunken juggler, Milo just managed to keep the bag from hitting the floor, and then, realizing the bag was undone, he made another quick scramble to keep its contents inside.

“Try it all on, just to make sure,” the office grumbled in Polish. “I’ll get the rest sorted.”

Milo peeked inside the bag and saw a folded uniform, along with a bundled greatcoat. Everything was matte black. Milo would have argued that there was some mistake, but when he raised his head, the quartermaster had disappeared among the rows of crates again.

“This day isn’t shaping up so bad after all,” he mumbled to himself as he fished out the greatcoat and let it unfurl in his outstretched hands.

The Federated armies had adopted the black uniform to distinguish themselves from the colonial forces a decade ago, which was plenty of time to imprint a powerful image in people’s psyche: a tall, grim officer clothed like the Grim Reaper striding the hellish battlefield, unafraid and implacable. Milo knew, intellectually at least, that the reality was far from this prosaic creation, but it had its appeal.

With childlike haste, he put down his bag and slid into the coat.

It fit well across the shoulders and was long enough, but he was keenly aware his taut, wiry frame did not fill it out, especially through the arms and chest. All the same, it felt good. Powerful, even.

He looked into the bag and thought maybe the uniform would help make up some of the difference in the size. The thin, threadbare rags given the penal conscripts were often described as “whatever the moths couldn’t stomach,” and were mismatched to boot. Pants too short and a shirt so wide he had to fold it in on itself had been par for the course for him for months.

He shucked off the greatcoat, but he was careful to bundle it up and place it reverently back into the bag. He imagined he’d get dirty soon enough, but for the moment, he’d keep it pristine if he could.

Milo began to draw out his new regalia, grinning as he gathered the pieces in his arms: starched trousers and shirts, even a crisp undershirt that was so clean it must have been unused. At the bottom of the bag, he spied the glint of a new belt and new boots. Milo had never known a proper Christmas morning; such luxuries were rare for children with intact families these days, much less a foreign orphan, but what he felt wasn’t far from what such lucky darlings experienced.

He let the garments slide