Sorcerybound (World's First Wizard Book 2) by Aaron Schneider (ready player one ebook .TXT) 📕

he saw fit. A nagging thought told him he’d behaved that way up to this point, but with Lokkemand now gone and everything declared a loss, anything he could salvage from the situation would be an unexpected success. He hadn’t wanted things to turn out this way, but now that they had, he felt there was nothing holding him back.

And that meant preparing for what came next.

“The messenger said within a week,” Milo related after the last lights of the last vehicle winked behind a concealing hill. “That means that we have four days to prepare for Stalin and his forces.”

“I doubt very much if forces will be sent just for us.” Ambrose grunted. “A decent number of Germans to drag out for a big show execution is one thing, but we aren’t worth the time. He’ll send a squad of conscripts if he sends anything.”

Rihyani nodded but said nothing as she drew her heavy traveling cloak around her shoulders. She’d begun to show the traces of silver light in her complexion and hair, but she was still a long way from her usual brilliance. Milo had offered her one of his restoratives, but she had declined, saying that she was healing quicker than her appearance suggested. Milo found that incredible considering the ordeal she’d gone through, but he was counting on her rapid recovery.

“That’s only because they think the Germans all left,” Milo said, a smile hitching up one corner of his mouth. “But if they think the opposite occurred, like maybe an entire regiment marched in, they would have to make a show of force. There is more than a good chance that Stalin might send the bulk of his forces to make a clear statement.”

Both fey and bodyguard turned to look at Milo with furrowed brows.

“And why would they think that?” Rihyani asked.

Milo kept staring into the coming night and smiling.

“Because we’re going to use the Art to make it look like that.”

“Milo,” Rihyani began, her eyes narrowing as she studied his face in profile, “the Art can make others believe things and even be affected by those beliefs, but fighting a battle with an illusory army is beyond any fey’s skill.”

Milo turned away from the dark and looked at Rihyani, still smiling.

“We aren’t going to fight them,” he explained. “We’re going to lure them out here, and with most of his men chasing phantoms, we’re going to find and capture Stalin. With the head of the coup gone and the forces dispersed, the Georgian government will have a chance to recover. We can’t fix it for them, but we can give them a chance while we take Stalin back to Nicht-KAT for interrogation.”

Ambrose and Rihyani both looked doubtful but nodded slowly.

“It’s halfway to suicide,” the big man muttered. “But if you can convince the Reds that’s what’s going on, it might work.”

“Not to sound bloodthirsty, but wouldn’t it be easier to kill this Stalin?” the contessa asked.

“We need to know his connection to the Guardians,” Milo explained. “We need to get a better understanding of what connections they have to German forces and outside, and questioning Stalin seems like the best bet to get some answers as to how his benefactor operates.”

Rihyani considered the answer for a moment, looking out into the darkness deepening across the vista.

“And if the benefactor is there with Stalin?” she asked.

“Then we kill or capture him,” Milo said evenly. “Probably the former rather than the latter. A human prisoner is one thing, but the Guardian is probably going to be too difficult for us to transport easily.”

“And we still don’t know exactly what kind of supernatural help this Guardian is giving Stalin?” Ambrose asked as he probed around his coat before drawing out his pipe and tobacco.

“Only that he has incredible control over his followers,” Milo replied.

Rihyani sighed. “That could be anything.”

“Does the name Joseph mean anything?” Ambrose asked, giving Milo a sideways glance. “Or Ioseb Besa…a…”

“Ioseb Besarionis dzе Jugashvili,” Milo said as they both turned to look at the fey.

Rihyani shook her head.

“Wouldn’t want it to be too easy, now, would we?” Ambrose said around the stem of the pipe between his teeth. “Besides, doesn't change what we have to do, does it?”

“No,” Milo said, forcing himself to keep the confident smile on his face. “No, it doesn’t.”

20

The Message

Milo was surprised to see a familiar face among the men Ambrose brought to the fortress the next day before late afternoon.

To give the Red warlord time to gather his forces for a proper response, Milo thought it imperative that word of the arrival of a strong German contingent needed to be issued as soon as possible. As such, Milo had sent Ambrose to the village of Shatili to ask for local Bolsheviks and gather a few of them in the bed of the Rollsy for an introduction to the “German answer.” The men had not come willingly, of course, but few knocks on the head and a few lengths of rope, and Ambrose had come into the courtyard frog-marching three bound and rather terrified men.

One of those men happened to be the farmer who’d sicced his dogs on Milo the night he’d been gathering hearth ash. The man didn’t seem to recognize the magus, which was not at all surprising, not only because of the nature of their encounter but also because of the figure standing next to him.

“Are you ready for this?” Milo whispered out the side of his mouth.

“Absolutely,” boomed a strong kettle-drum voice in thick German.

The man who made the declaration could have been the impossible offspring of Lokkemand and Ambrose. He was huge, as tall or taller than the towering captain but with a bulky physique like that of his other “parent,” and upon his florid face sat a well-waxed mustache that would have left a walrus envious. He was dressed in an officer’s black coat festooned with medals and sporting the red-banded knotwork of an Oberstleutnant, or lieutenant colonel, upon his shoulders.

“You’re very