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

mountain,” Milo continued, looking at the map to find the mountain under which Ifreedahm sat. “When our allies saw German zeppelins over it, they became nervous. They insisted I come personally to sort things out.”

Lokkemand looked up from the map and met Milo’s gaze for the first time since entering the tent. His eyes were haggard, his skin was pale almost to looking gray, and his cheeks were on the verge of gaunt. Apparently life in Afghanistan did not sit well with the formerly handsome and strapping captain.

“What do they want?” he asked stiffly.

“They want reassurances that the arrangements made with them still stand,” Milo replied, fighting the urge to cross his arms irritably. “The plans, which I know nothing about, even though they are the entire operation.”

“The situation necessitates your ignorance,” Lokkemand said flatly, then reached for the schnapps. “Trust me, Volkohne, you're better off not knowing these sorts of things.”

After a hearty pull on the bottle, a little color returned to Lokkemand’s face, and his eyes sharpened enough for him to realize he didn’t recognize one of the members of the assembled company.

“Who is she?” he grunted, eyeing Imrah appraising, Milo found himself not appreciating it.

Imrah looked archly at Milo and nodded.

“This is Imrah Marid, a high-ranking member of the allies' command structure,” Milo explained. “She’s here to continue my education, as well as to ensure the interests of our allies are seen to.”

“Really?” the captain asked, then took another drink before sizing her up once more. He turned back to Milo with a questioning look. “Do they all look so...mundane?”

“It is a disguise, you inebriated slab of meat,” Imrah replied scornfully, her fingers curling reflexively. “Now, are things still in place for the arrangements you made with my father or not?”

Lokkemand seemed to be surprised she could talk more than anything else, his eyes darting from the seething Imrah to the bemused Milo and back.

“Father?” he murmured, then his eyes moved toward the map again. “The situation may require that we renegotiate the particulars of the service we’re to render.”

Milo imagined the look Imrah gave the captain would set a lesser man ablaze.

“What did you say?” she asked, her voice on the brittle edge of dangerous.

To his credit, Lokkemand met the disguised ghul’s glare evenly. It probably helped that disguise made her look far less threatening.

“Please look at the map,” he said coolly as he picked up a measuring stick that was leaning against the table.

Imrah complied, but the look on her face was all the warning any of them needed. This had better be good.

“This is where the battleline was previously,” Lokkemand said, using the ruler as a pointer to indicate a dotted line on the map. The line started in a place called Chaghcharān and ran down a jagged path along the cusp of a mountain range designated B. Turkistan before terminating in a place called Sarpol.

“Our forces have been gridlocked along this line for nearly a decade,” the captain continued. “At first we sent only exploratory forces. They met hard resistance, but the coalition of Italian, British, and local forces were too disjointed to launch an effective counterattack. The assumption was this country was going to be a skirmishing buffer between us and the British holdings farther south and east.”

Here he indicated Pakistan and the north arm of India.

“But after the victories against the Italians in Isonzo and the subsequent annexation of Greece by the Austro-Hungarians, eyes turned toward pushing the boundaries here,” Lokkemand explained as he again pointed to the dotted battle line. “But it was no use, until within the last three months the enemy line seemed to crumble. First the Afghans, then the Italians, and finally the British abandoned their positions.”

Lokkemand sighed and stepped back to drain the schnapps.

“Command couldn’t understand what was happening, and the intelligence reports they were receiving weren’t making any sense. Entire regiments routed overnight, sometimes with both men and materiel going missing. It was assumed it was preparation for a flanking maneuver, or maybe some sort of ploy to attempt to draw committed forces out of position. Orders were to hold position and wait for intelligence to thoroughly assess the situation.”

“But they didn’t count on the White Rider,” Milo said, seeing the story unfold in his mind’s eye. “Epp seized the opportunity despite his orders.”

“I see you’ve already heard about the Bavarian,” Lokkemand said, massaging his temples. “Yes, Major Franz Ritter von Epp threw his regiment at the open lines like a hungry dog on a bone. If the enemy had been baiting the hook, it would have caught in his greedy throat. As it was, he became a hero.”

Ambrose shuffled a little and crossed his arms, a look of consternation on his face.

“You have something to say?” the captain asked sharply.

Ambrose looked at Lokkemand coolly, but then after staring for a second, his gaze softened, and the look he gave the fraying officer was one of pity.

“I’ve never known general staff or any military command to celebrate anyone who takes to ignoring orders. Why does this Epp get a pass, much less a pat on the back?”

Lokkemand, who looked ready to rally for a fight with Ambrose, wilted and started looking around for something. A chair, one sized to better accommodate his stature, was a few steps away, and he sank into it with a groan before continuing. Perspiration had begun to bead on his brow.

“Because Epp wasn’t a nobody to begin with.” Lokkemand grunted as he wrenched at his collar. “He’s Ritter von Epp because he won the Grand Cross earlier in the war, along with the Pour le Mérite for his work in Isonzo. Epp’s star was rising some time ago, and the general staff sent him down here to stall his advancement.”

Lokkemand finally pulled his uniform collar open, but his face was already flushed in a blotchy pattern.

“Are you all right, Captain?” Milo asked, noting that his commanding officer’s face shone with sweat. “Are you sick?”

“I’m fine,” Lokkemand wheezed in an unconvincing