Witchmarked (World's First Wizard Book 1), Aaron Schneider [most important books to read .txt] 📗

his newly freed hand to jam a thumb into the other one’s eye. The man screamed and instinctively twisted away, letting Milo come away from the wall. No longer pinned down, he gave the reeling, half-blinded man a hard shove that sent him staggering right into the path of the advancing form of the big interloper.

The man, who he had only now put together as his bodyguard, grabbed Milo's would-be captor by the arm and gave a short, sharp twist. There was a wet snap, and the man’s arm bent at a wholly unnatural joint. The man gave a thin, shrill scream and the arm hung useless, the pick handle tumbling free. The bodyguard scooped the bludgeon up, and with a nod, tossed it to Milo.

“Be a good boy and clean up after yourself,” he instructed the man staggering to his feet, one hand cradling the damaged goods between his thighs.

Without waiting to see the outcome, the big man advanced on the two brutes grappling with the quartermaster.

Milo hefted the pick handle, savoring the solid weight as he stepped toward the stricken wretch. With one look at his compatriot on the floor, the man took a wild swing at Milo that was easily deflected, then executed a limping vault over Kasper’s crawling form as they both made for the door.

Milo almost went after him, eager to let the man taste the hardwood stick, but he heard an angry bellow that drew his attention back across the room. Jules was on his feet, one side of his face sporting an ugly purple mass. The bayonet was still in his hand, and with murder in his eyes, he advanced on Milo’s bodyguard, who was hoisting a thug in each hand as though they were naughty puppies.

Gripping the handle in both hands, Milo bounded toward Jules. Hoping to catch him off-guard, Milo made a wild swing at the man’s head, but something alerted him at the last second. Swaying like a snake away from the blow, he wrong-footed Milo and lunged in, bayonet plunging for the guts. Milo checked his advance and scrambled back to avoid being spitted.

“I’m going to carve off your face and stitch it onto a handkerchief,” Jules frothed, lashing and probing with the long-bladed knife. “Then when I send it to Roland, he can blow his nose in your pretty face whenever he wants.”

Milo batted away a swipe with the cudgel, but the strike was a feint, and he lurched back. Jules leapt forward, and the blade missed Milo’s nose by less than an inch.

“Maybe not.” Jules huffed, flicking the blade around to tease Milo. “Maybe I’ll have your face sewn onto trousers instead. What do you say, little bird? Front or back?”

In a desperate gambit, Milo swept a blow low, knowing Jules could avoid it easily. When he did, Milo pulled the swing upward, connecting with the thug’s chin as he leapt to the attack. Jules’s head snapped back, and he rocked back on his heels. Reversing the swing, Milo brought the cudgel crashing back down, and the teetering brute collapsed to the floor in a boneless heap.

Panting with shock as much as exertion, Milo looked around and saw the fight was over.

The quartermaster was nursing a wrenched wrist, rolling it back and forth, while Milo’s bodyguard stood watching his charge with an appraising eye. At his feet were the two who’d been grappling with the quartermaster, along with their knife-wielding friend. All three were so still, it took Milo a moment of staring to realize they were still breathing.

A look over his shoulder told him the man with the broken arm had joined his bruised compatriot and Kasper in flight.

Milo’s hands began to shake, and he gripped the club to calm himself.

“Not bad.” The big man sidled over to Milo, making a bit of a show as he stepped over Jules. “Footwork’s atrocious, but that pulled strike wasn’t anything to complain about.”

Up close, Milo realized that though the man matched or outweighed a titan like Captain Lokkemand, he was shorter than Milo by half a head.

“Simon Ambrose,” he intoned, wiping a hand on the hem of his jacket and then extending the huge paw. “At your service, sir.”

Milo gawked at being called “sir” so long that Ambrose began to withdraw his hand. Shaking his head to clear the aftershock, Milo awkwardly thrust a hand out, which the big man took in a crushing grip.

“Milo Volkohne,” he muttered numbly.

“Oh, I know.” Ambrose chuckled, his green eyes twinkling. “Now we best get you sorted with the quartermaster. Coat looks good on you, by the way.”

4

An Operation

“Afghanistan?” Milo shouted over the chugging diesel engine. “Where’s that?”

In the orphanage, his schooling had been basic, to put it mildly. Milo was keenly aware of that, but since he was headed there with Ambrose and Lokkemand’s team, he couldn’t let embarrassment stand in the way of gathering intelligence.

“Somewhere between the Devil’s backside and Hell’s chamber pot,” his bodyguard growled without opening his eyes. The boulder of a man had parked himself next to Milo, folded his hands over his belly, and shuttered his eyes as though set for a long nap. Apparently, he woke up to offer useless geographic insights.

Lokkemand, who seemed to experience only the unique emotion of perpetual annoyance, rolled his eyes and set about unfurling a map on his lap. It took a minute longer since the truck bed rocked as they crossed a cavernous pothole.

“Afghanistan is a Mohammedan kingdom on the other side of Persia,” he explained, his words sharp and irritated even through the rumbling of the vehicle they rode in. “Their emir rejected overtures by both the Kaiser and the Ottomans some time ago, and since then, we’ve been obliged to waste troops fighting the heathen and their British allies in their miserable caves.”

“Caves?” Milo asked as he watched Lokkemand’s finger trace a quick circle around the nation in question.

“Nearly half the wretched place is jagged heaps of rock,” Ambrose said, allowing one eye to slide