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

country of crags and goat tracks, a pony is about the only thing better than your own two feet.”

Milo hadn’t thought about it, but it was a fair point. From what little he’d seen of the country, the respectable road leading down from Shahr-e Zuhak was the exception rather than the rule.

“Wasn’t always that way, of course,” Beck continued as they strode down the street, boots scuffing the packed earth. “The whole command had quite the shock when we moved on from Isonzo. We still get to shoot the occasional Italian, but it's the old four-foots that get most of our boys and their kit where they need to be.”

One of the soldiers piped up, a youth who seemed even younger than Milo, his lip speckled with juvenile peach fuzz. Milo couldn’t remember his name.

“Not that we have to worry about shooting the Romans anymore,” he squeaked. His voice cracked, but he hardly seemed to notice. “Now that they’ve turned tail. It’s all Brits and their colonials now!”

“We’ll shoot whoever’s there,” Beck said, a mild note of reproof in his tone. “Otherwise, we best leave such matters for the Rider.”

“White Rider always where he needs to be.” The other soldier, a sour-faced man named Hort, muttered the words like an incantation.

“Always,” the fuzzy-lipped youth agreed solemnly.

Milo looked at Ambrose, who shrugged, then turned back to see Beck looking at him, his expression between a sheepish grin and a defensive scowl. The look did nothing to help his complexion.

“My apologies, sir,” Beck said stiffly. “The Rider, or sometimes the White Rider, is our name for Major General Epp. He was regimental commander for our own Royal Bavarian Lifeguard before he rose to command the entire division here on this branch of the southeastern front.”

“Funny thing, him being called Rider,” Ambrose mused. “You’re infantry grunts, and in all my years, I’ve never heard a footslogger wanting to take on a cavalryman’s title.”

Some half-heard but distinctly unfriendly mutters rose from the two soldiers, but Lance Corporal Beck silenced them with a look.

“In all your aide’s years,” Beck said while pointedly not looking at Ambrose, “I doubt he’s ever seen the likes of the major general, especially on that day that saw us marching right into Bamyan. If that old goose Viermann had been listened to, we would not have taken the opportunity to seize more ground in a week than has been taken in years in this God-forsaken country.”

Milo wasn’t privy to the intricacies of Federated command structure, much less the details of what had happened on this front, but if he understood correctly, this Epp had disobeyed orders and gotten a promotion out of it. Not only that, but Epp seemed to have won a following with his audacity to boot. Such things made Milo nervous, and he suddenly had a burning desire to report to Lokkemand and get back to his mission.

“Well, you boys are lucky then,” Milo said. “Such victories are rare nowadays.”

There was a low thrum in the air over their heads, and Milo looked up to see a war zeppelin, those great sky-leviathans, churning through the clear air. Its propellers were throbbing almost lazily as it gained altitude, a king climbing languorously to his lofty throne.

“We’re not done yet,” Beck said, his eyes flashing as one finger pointed at the zeppelin. “Why do you think those are humming around?”

Milo could guess, but since he was feeling more and more inclined to be rude to the excitable NCO, he just shrugged. He felt Ambrose should have subtly complimented him on being so tactful, but one look at the big man told Milo he was having his own struggles with keeping things civil.

“We’re not going to be staying in Bamyan for very long,” the lance corporal said, a hard look stealing across his features.

They marched on in a silence Milo appreciated. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what it was about the Bavarian Lifeguards that struck a sour note with him, but he felt it all the same. Something nagged at the back of his mind when they spoke, not the words so much as the way they said them. It was also in their eyes, an almost manic shine. As they headed across a broad road, pausing as horse-drawn artillery pieces passed, Milo watched the faces of the men passing them, and he thought he realized what it was.

Fanaticism.

These men moved with an energy and purpose that went beyond the brisk economy of professional soldiers about their work. Every man seemed gripped by frantic energy, at once looking like he might collapse into rapture or explode into rage. Milo felt as though his skin had tightened, and he forced himself to keep looking ahead to keep from looking around in horror.

Once he saw it, Milo was amazed he’d struggled to put his finger on it. It was the same look he’d seen on the faces of the young men who’d been in Roland’s gang. Milo knew that because he’d seen it and heard it in that desperate band of young men, men who’d done incredible violence at Roland’s word. Some of them, barely more than children, had walked smiling into blades and bullets at a word, right before Milo’s eyes. He knew it even more intimately than that, even though it ached like a deep scar to remember.

Milo knew that gleam because he’d seen it in his reflection in those early days. Having drunk from the cup, Milo knew what it meant, and how such things should have been feared. The things he’d been willing to do haunted him almost as much as the things he had done.

The sun was seeping through his clothes, and Milo felt an irritable itch that had more to do with his mind than his body.

Unable to stop himself, Milo stole a glance over his shoulder at the younger soldier as they stepped off the road and made their way across a lot of crushed rock. The glance lasted only a second before