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

began, provoking the first affirmative response from the ghuls in the gallery, “but I’ll tell you the truth as far as I know it, with my promise that it is the truth.”

The audience hall seethed, then seemed to hold its breath as Lady Hrawn nodded.

“I was sent here to learn the ways of magic from your people,” Milo said, feeling much smaller in the sudden, smothering stillness. “It cost my bosses a lot of money and the lives of many good men to get me here. The men I work for aren’t nice people, or even probably as good as the men who died so I could come here in secret, but they’re not wasteful or stupid.”

At least, Milo thought, not most of them.

“They’re at war right now with a lot of enemies, and those are just other humans,” he continued. “Why go to all the expense in blood and resources just to find another enemy to fight? They’ve already got enough of those. They aren’t going to go around looking for fresh fights, especially not with a people they know almost nothing about.”

The whispers had begun to creep back in, but either delusion or hope convinced him they weren’t as hostile as before.

“So whatever those zeppelins are for, I don’t think it’s to wage war on you and your people. When you’re fighting a war like they are, you don’t spend what you can’t spare to make new enemies. You spend it to make new friends.”

Lady Hrawn, the amphibian-faced speaker, and a few other members of the council nodded and exchanged meaningful looks. The crashing wave of whispers descended again, but in the little snippets he caught, there seemed to be as many who were leaning his way as those calling for him to be drawn and quartered.

The speaker, at a slight inclination of Lady Hrawn’s head, shifted ponderously forward and raised his deep amphibian voice.

“The council will take these points into consideration and compose a proper initiative to propose to the Bashlek,” he intoned, then swung his heavy gaze to those in front of him. “Our thanks and appreciation to Contessa Rihyani and the magus for their willingness to testify before the Nether Council—”

A piercing shriek rang from Lady Dazk’s seat, and when Milo swung toward it, he saw that it was empty. She was advancing toward Milo, gesticulating wildly as she ranted.

“You bring the enemy to our gates, and still you stand and smile at us! You talk about friendship and good lives lost while you plot our destruction! Does your swollen pride have no limits?”

“Get behind me,” Ambrose rumbled, thrusting himself in front of Milo. The rifle was still slung over his shoulder, but the bodyguard radiated a primal willingness for violence. While tall for a ghul, Dazk wasn’t eye to eye with the big man, and one of his beefy arms probably weighed more than her.

Milo knew her physical prowess was not the threat. With her denouncing screams, he felt the temperature in the room change again.

“Ah, the mighty magus cowers behind his slave when faced with the truth,” she screamed. “See the heart of those who would be your conquerors, Ifreedahm! See and know that if we strike now, strike first and strike hard, we can break their spirits and safeguard our homes.”

A few of the other council members made to speak, some in dismay, some in support, but it didn’t matter. Lady Dazk’s indignant rage was carrying the day, infectious and empowering.

“And if we are to strike,” she snarled, coming to within arm's length of Ambrose as ghuls great and small from the gallery began to slink forward, “I know just where to start.”

Milo’s eyes searched the audience chamber, and he saw only a mob of monsters creeping toward him. His hand tightened on the cane, feeling the energy thrumming within it in time with his pounding heart. He searched the crowd for a thin spot, a place where, with a torrent of flame, they might be able to break through.

It would be a futile move since he and Ambrose were still in the belly of the beast, but he wasn’t going to become someone’s meat without knocking a few teeth out first.

The magic quickened within the skull, witchfire gleaming in the empty eyes of the dead raptor.

His eyes still roving, he spied the fey, islands of light and beauty amidst horrors. The colossus still wore his smirk, while the green one looked bored with the entire proceeding. The smaller one, the one who shone silver and shades of violet, was looking at him, her dark-golden-pupiled eyes smiling.

Seeing he returned her gaze, she inclined her head to Milo across the sea of gnashing teeth and hateful stares and gave him a wink.

Surprised to say the least, Milo’s witchfire guttered and then was blown out completely as the main entrance to the audience chamber burst open with a tremendous boom.

All froze as, resplendent upon a palanquin born by four ogre-sized ghuls, Bashlek Marid was borne into the chamber, followed by ranks of the baroquely armored Qareen. The animated corpses moved in perfect unison, bearing spears whose points dripped icy fog. Without a word, the battalion of corpses formed up behind the Bashlek in an unliving wall that stretched across the chamber and stood three deep.

Atop his lofty conveyance, the Bashlek looked across the room, thoughtfully stroking the crimson length of his stole. His wily and wicked gaze roved over the entire assembly before, with a heavy sigh, he addressed the chamber.

“My, my this does seem rather serious,” he remarked, let his gaze play across any who would meet his eye. “Was I gone so long that you deemed it fitting to assemble a celebration to welcome me back? Oh, you shouldn’t have, really.”

Everyone stared at him, silent and stunned, though both Ambrose and Milo had expressions of such intense relief on their faces that they seemed ready to faint.

Marid’s eyes wandered over to the fey, and his gnarled hands thumped together in a sound