Wizardborn (World's First Wizard Book 3) by Aaron Schneider (read me like a book txt) 📕

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