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

here to keep you safe, and the way I’ll do that is by killing everything and anything seeking to do you harm.”

This wasn’t the first or the hundredth time Milo had heard a boast like that from bravos and tough guys, but this was the first time he believed every word of it. Some intuition, maybe magical, told Milo that Simon Ambrose was the type of man who didn’t need to lie.

Milo let a slow, impressed curse slide out with the smoke as he basked in the afterglow of Ambrose’s declaration. After a moment’s reflection, he shook his head and popped the train window to toss out the stub of his cigarette.

“Not doubting your obvious credentials,” Milo said, one hand raised in warding placation, “but that only answers part of the question. I want to know why someone in your unique situation would take this position?”

Ambrose nodded and reached over to tap his pipe out through the open window before Milo drew it shut.

“That Colonel Jorge saved me a good deal of headache and then promised me something,” he said as he stowed his pipe. “I’m going to see you through this to make sure he keeps that promise.”

Milo sat back and began to wonder if there would be a time in the near future when a question he asked would not lead to a dozen more.

“My turn,” the bodyguard declared, capitalizing on the momentary silence. “That is, assuming you are satisfied and prepared to move on?”

Milo wasn’t, but he nodded anyway.

“So,” the big man began, sinking back and folding his hands across the belly, “why don’t you like the name Volkohne?”

Milo sucked his teeth and considered taking a page from the other man’s book and pretending to be sleepy, but since this was the first real conversation he’d had in some time, he decided he could endure a little longer.

“’Volkohne’ is the name given to every child taken in by the Krieg-Waisenhausr without a family name,” Milo said, trying his best to keep his voice steady and monotonous. “Even among orphans, having a name like that sets you apart, and when it comes to kids, it's never a good idea to be set apart.”

Ambrose pursed his lips, his mustache flaring as he studied Milo.

“So, some snot-nosed urchins made fun of your name.” He shrugged. “You're not a child anymore.”

“But it’s not my name!” Milo snapped, the words rushing up like bile, hot and bitter. “That’s the name they stuck me with, like branding livestock. And that’s just what I was to them—some stupid animal fostered for slaughtering. Do you know what happens when you age out of the Waisenhaus?”

Ambrose shook his head.

“To repay the generosity of the Kaiser, you are obliged to either join a colonial regiment or serve a term of service as an indentured worker in the mines or factories. Death in the trenches or being mangled by machines and mishap.”

“But you don’t have to join a penal regiment,” Ambrose observed, an infuriating twinkle in his eyes. “And let’s not forget the getup you’re wearing now.”

Milo looked down at his black coat and strangled the biting reply he felt rising in the back of his throat. Ambrose wasn’t wrong about any of it, but the self-satisfied look on his face was irritating in the extreme.

Silence stretched between them as the train rolled southward and the sun began to sink.

“So, what am I supposed to call you?” Ambrose asked at last. “I can’t help noting they gave you that getup without any insignia of rank except those devil traps on your cap.”

“You could call me Milo,” he offered. “That is my name, after all.”

“No,” Ambrose muttered with a shake of his head. “I knew a Milo, and that boy was a whiny wretch.”

Milo shrugged, feeling tired and hollow.

“I’m thinking...Magus,” Ambrose said with a final nod. “Milo Magus, or probably just Magus.”

Milo allowed himself a small smile. It was better than most of the names he’d been called.

“Not sure I can live up to the name,” Milo said, turning toward the window. “But thanks, I suppose.”

Ambrose gave him a lopsided grin as he yawned, and his eyes settled back to their customary position.

“You’ll grow into it,” he muttered drowsily. “Like that new coat, I suppose.”

Milo absently plucked at the coat, feeling the vacuous space within, wanting to believe the big man was right. Simon Ambrose didn’t seem the type who had to lie.

5

A Stair

The last leg of the journey seemed determined to remind Milo that though he was Magus to Ambrose, he was still a soldier, and that meant marching.

The rail line had taken them to a ferry across the Caspian, where they had joined a larger contingent of Federated troops, the venerable 33rd East Prussian Fusiliers. Captain Lokkemand seemed to be at ease as their attaché perched among the seasoned regiment like a vermin-eating bird on a behemoth, separate but still sheltered. Lokkemand was hosted by a fellow officer every night for some time, returning the next day bleary-eyed but less irritable. For Milo and his burly shadow, nothing much changed. They were instructed to keep to themselves lest they, as novices in shadowy operations, let something slip over a game of cards and some schnapps.

Despite this moratorium on contact, Ambrose did manage to acquire a bottle of Ansatzkorn, a potent beverage the big man described as being “a dirtier German version of vodka.” They’d only intended to sample it the night they made the crossing, but as it turned out, Milo had to be carried by Ambrose like a child in the aftermath of the empty bottle clutched in Milo’s fist.

After the crossing, the team and the regiment boarded another train that took them to a city called Merv. The ancient city, Lokkemand explained, marked the edge of secure territory, and that from here on out, the 33rd would be acting as a combat escort as they moved up and along the Murgap River. The river, which began deep in Afghanistan, was supposedly under German control,