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

“Your aide’s a big one, isn’t he?” the sergeant said with a thrust of his chin at Ambrose.

“If you’re impressed now,” the big man called in a bluff, jolly voice, “wait until you get me out of the cold.”

There were chuckles from some of the sentries, and the non-com who held their lives in his leathery hands cracked a smile.

“Wouldn’t want to miss that.” He nodded. “All right, let’s get you sorted.”

Sergeant Major Vogt of the Royal Bavarian Infantry Lifeguards Regiment struck Milo as a man who was every bit as formidable as the name of his regiment, despite his small stature and slight build. He moved among his men with the easy confidence Milo imagined an old wolf might have in a pack he’d whelped. Every man deferred to him with ready respect.

Given this, it was no surprise that things moved fairly quickly for Milo and his companions. Ambrose was given the biggest jacket and pair of trousers they had on hand, then two soldiers and a lance corporal escorted them to Bamyan for debriefing. The city the German army had occupied was sixteen or so kilometers north from Zuhak, and the road winding down from the mountains had been kept in good order.

Halfway down in the gray light of the predawn, they’d met more Bavarians from the 9th Royal Artillery who were taking a truck down to Bamyan to get some supplies. To help their countrymen, the men from the 9th invited them to hop into the back, ensuring they moved even more quickly down the mountains. Any attempts at conversation were squelched by the rumble of the engine, but it provided Milo and Ambrose an opportunity to take quick naps as they rumbled along. For her part, Imrah seemed intent on watching everything with an almost feral intensity.

“It’s all right,” Milo called to the disguised ghul, remembering that they were still playing at her being a guide. “These are the good guys.”

Imrah looked at him with incredulity, as though he’d suggested it was quiet or the sky was made of spun sugar.

“No such thing,” she hissed, her voice barely audible over the chug of the diesel engine.

“Fair enough,” Milo admitted, and leaned closer so as not to be overheard by the others. “What happened to the contessa?”

“They’re fey.” She shrugged. “Apart from extracting a promise from them, which is nearly impossible, nothing can keep them where they don’t want to be.”

“That sounds useful,” Milo said more admiringly than he intended. “I could think of a lot of uses for that trick.”

The hunger to know more stirred somewhere between his mind and his belly, despite the fatigue.

“Maybe,” Imrah replied coldly. “But you’d have to learn it from a fey, and you might as well ask the wind to teach you to fly.”

Milo gave Imrah a teasing smile and winked at her.

“Why, princess, if I didn’t know better, I would say you sounded jealous of the contessa.”

Imrah clacked her less than impressive human teeth in Ghulish fury before turning away from him in outrage.

Milo shrugged and settled in to contemplate possible tutelage with the likes of the contessa. Somehow the memory of her seemed sweeter than before, and again Milo felt the enchanting pressure at the back of his mind. Like the soft but heavy current of a slow river, it invited him to go where it led. More magic, apparently woven into his memories of the fey. Milo felt a prickle of danger at the thought, but that only seemed to make learning such magic more enticing. He’d only scratched the surface of necromantic alchemy, and there was still so much to learn, it was dizzying.

With his mind occupied, his body found time to enjoy the rocking vibration of the vehicle, lulling him into a shallow but appreciated slumber.

He awoke to bright, burning sunlight stabbing into the bed of the truck as their ride came to a juddering stop, then with a rough shift of gears, began to back up in a wide sweep. Milo raised a hand to shield his eyes, but the invasion of blinding light was cut off by the shadow of the building their ride was sliding back toward. A large pavilion loomed before him, its old timbers jutting from weathered stone speaking of a structure that had served long before the snarl and puff of modern machines had come to squat beneath it. In a glance, Milo saw that it was serving as a centralized motor pool for the various regiments operating out of Bamyan, but the bustle seemed at odds with the aged structure. It was a venerable shelter, more accustomed to the hawking calls of merchants and the smells of asses and oxen.

After their ride came to a stop and they clambered out, Milo noted he could still smell the sharp, musky scents of beasts. After a few minutes, he understood why as he followed their escorts through the hive-like bustle of the motor pavilion, crossed a dusty street of packed earth, and then walked by an expansive stable.

Unlike the pavilion, the stable was a recent addition to this part of the town, a ramshackle collection of scrap wood and metal that had been assembled rather hastily. Milo at first thought the equines were domestic misplaced by German forces, but as they moved past the yard connected to the stable, every creature he saw was wearing a harness with Imperial and regimental colors, though he didn’t recognize the latter.

“You're still using horses?” Milo asked. In Europe, though equines for both combat and logistical support had been fairly common with all belligerents at the outset of the war, they’d been almost completely replaced in the last decade. A combination of technological advances and the fact that arable land was used exclusively for human and not horse fodder meant horses were a sign of war’s onset, an anachronism shoved out as the war-machine ground on.

“Jah.” The lance corporal, a darkly freckled man named Beck, nodded. “In this