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

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