Sorcerybound (World's First Wizard Book 2), Aaron Schneider [accelerated reader books .txt] 📗

for the colonel, Milo knew he was the one of importance. Jorge would of course give Lokkemand his due respect, especially on arrival, but no one was under any illusion as to why he’d come this far afield.

In a perverse inversion of all expectations, it was not to soldiers that the German Empire was turning for victory in this unending war.

Looking at Lokkemand standing there, most certainly aware of this fact, gave Milo a new appreciation for the man’s struggle and no small amount of sympathy. No wonder Lokkemand turned to drink so often; the very foundations of his life and identity were being eroded in service to his nation. He may still have been a haughty ass with a penchant for drink, but Milo couldn’t find it in himself to dislike him quite as much anymore.

The first truck rolled into the courtyard, cracking a few of the venerable stones under its weight. A squad of soldiers in matte-black uniforms scrambled out, forming a mirror formation to Lokkemand’s men that waited for the second truck to deliver their ward and master. A sergeant with a face like old boot leather watched over the honor guard with a flinty stare that trailed over Lokkemand’s unmoving retinue before resting on Milo.

Milo stared back until the sergeant turned to watch the second truck come to a stop.

Despite his defiant gaze, Milo found his hands starting to fiddle with the hair jutting from the back of his cap. Ambrose had promised to cut it, but Jorge had arrived before the bodyguard had gotten around to it. Milo hadn't thought anything of it before, but now, standing only a few paces from Lokkemand and the sergeant’s scrutiny, he felt keenly aware of his less than immaculate appearance.

“Quit fiddling,” Ambrose muttered softly under his breath.

The back ramp to the second truck opened, and Milo forced his hands to fall straight to his sides.

“Attention!” bawled the sergeant as Colonel Jorge made his unhurried way down the ramp. Everyone in the courtyard, even Ambrose, straightened and saluted as the slight, slow man came to stand on the cobbles.

His worry-worn face was browned by the sun, but other than that, he seemed very much the same man who had talked to Milo in Poland all those months before. He moved with the same senile gait, despite seeming to be a trim man in his late fifties, and his eyes still pierced through everything that fell under his gaze.

“At ease,” he said with a smile as soon as he reached the end of the ramp. “No need to stand quivering as a cripple drags himself about.”

It was clearly a joke, but none had the heart to laugh.

Milo never knew why Jorge moved like he did, but climbing as high as he had in the Army was evidence he hadn’t always been this way. Jorge seemed determined to make light of his impairment, but no one else had the heart to.

Jorge saw this yet seemed unperturbed by it.

“So,” he said as he shuffled slowly toward Lokkemand, “I hear you have had a few local entanglements since the thaw. I’m glad to hear you were able to manage them handily, Captain.”

Milo noticed Lokkemand grimace for an instant as he forced his eyes to dart toward the magus.

“Yes, sir,” he replied smartly. “I understand that funds are scarce, but it seemed the best way to resolve the situation without further conflict, sir.”

“When I compliment you, there’s no need to give explanations, Captain,” Jorge said with a chuckle. “I trust your judgment; otherwise, I wouldn’t have given you this assignment.”

He then turned slowly toward Milo, his gray speckled brows bunching.

“And speaking of the assignment,” Jorge intoned dourly, “it seems I have something important to ask him?”

“Only one, sir?” Milo asked, unable to help himself.

Jorge’s eyes twinkled sharply, and a sharp smile cut across his face.

“Just the one.”

3

The Question

Milo led Jorge up to his study in the western wing of the complex, suddenly eager to display his efforts to the colonel. He told himself it was because he wanted to show that the trickle of magical items he’d sent to Nicht-KAT since being stuck in Georgia was the result of great efforts, but he knew the truth.

He was doing whatever he could to avoid having to discuss the “something important.”

Jorge seemed content to humor him, listening as he explained the intricacies of crafting a soul-well.

“Once the ingredients are measured to the correct proportions and you’ve located a point of proper resonance, resonance again being a sign that essence is pooling, which means shades, you activate the ingredients by mental effort.”

Milo scooped up one of his most recently expended soul wells, a small triptych of feline bones lashed together with hair from a pregnant mare’s mane.

“Once activated, the soul-well acts as negative space, a sort of low point or void,” he explained, holding out the fetish to the colonel. “Just like water filling a fresh hole in the bottom of a river or lake, the essence rushes in and with it shades, which are kind of like fish caught in the current. The trick is to make sure to keep the shades there and not let them attack you in the process.”

Jorge nodded as he gingerly took the used soul-well in his trembling hands.

“So, how do you accomplish that?” Jorge asked obligingly.

Milo nodded at a trio of earthen bowls on the table. The bowls were unglazed, their interiors blackened with layers of soot.

“Typical with a warding elixir that burns to form a layer of protection,” Milo said, tapping each of the bowls with his finger. “At least that is the way they used to do it, but thanks to implementing my own essence, remembering the blood magic, I can construct internal wards.”

The colonel inspected the triptych with a look of mild approval on his face.

“So, that is why you are letting me touch this bare-handed?” he asked with a cocked eyebrow and a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.

“No, oh, no,” Milo said