WitchMarked
World’s First Wizard™ Series Book 01
Aaron D. Schneider Michael Anderle
This book is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Sometimes both.
Copyright © 2020 LMBPN Publishing
Cover copyright © LMBPN Publishing
A Michael Anderle Production
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LMBPN Publishing
PMB 196, 2540 South Maryland Pkwy
Las Vegas, NV 89109
First US edition, September 2020
ebook ISBN: 978-1-64971-190-8
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-64971-191-5
Contents
The Witchmarked Team
Prologue: Null Victoria (July 1936)
1. A Test
2. A Choice
3. A Bonus
4. An Operation
5. A Stair
6. An Introduction
7. A Threshold
8. A Shock
9. An Audience
10. An Improvisation
11. A Lesson
12. A Development
13. An Interruption
14. An Adjustment
15. A Warning
16. A Promise
17. A Lie
18. A Return
19. An Understanding
20. A Suspicion
21. A Complicity
22. An Offering
23. A Ruse
24. A Gambit
25. A Novelty
Epilogue: Sine Sacrificio
Author Notes - Aaron Schneider
Acknowledgments
Author Notes - Michael Anderle
Connect with The Authors
Other Books by Aaron Schneider
Other LMBPN Publishing Books
The Witchmarked Team
Thanks to our Beta Team:
Nicole Emens, Kelly O’Donnell, Jim Caplan, John Ashmore, Larry Omans, Rachel Beckford, Allen Collins, Billie Leigh Kelar
Thanks to our JIT Team:
Dave Hicks
Deb Mader
Rachel Beckford
Kerry Mortimer
Diane L. Smith
Chrisa Changala
Jeff Goode
Paul Westman
If I’ve missed anyone, please let me know!
Editor
SkyHunter Editing Team
It lit me up like a torch on a pitch-black night
Like an ember in the needles of a dried-up pine
Lit Me Up, Brand New
“Woe to the rash mortal who seeks to know that of which he should remain ignorant, and to undertake that which surpasseth his power!”
Vathek, William Beckford
Magic
Sandra’s seen a leprechaun,
Eddie touched a troll,
Laurie danced with witches once,
Charlie found some goblin’s gold.
Donald heard a mermaid sing,
Susy spied an elf,
But all the magic I have known
I've had to make myself.
Where the Sidewalk Ends, Shel Silverstein
This book is dedicated to my mother. You were the first one who made me believe in magic. Thank you, Momma.
— Aaron
To Family, Friends and
Those Who Love
To Read.
May We All Enjoy Grace
To Live The Life We Are
Called.
— Michael
Prologue: Null Victoria (July 1936)
Afghani Overrun
Captain Cassio Magrid cursed as he read the telegraphed text. Being as he was a proper Italian officer of the glorious 9th Regiment, when he swore, it was akin to improvisational art: a blistering stream of obscenities with gravitas, metaphor, and nuance. The majesty of the profane declaration was wasted on his attendants, administrative staff, and junior officers. They were sitting at what passed for the officer’s mess in the worm-holed mountains, and many gawked with food still in their mouths. Before they could recover, he started barking orders in a thunderous voice.
“Withdrawal protocol!” he bellowed at his junior officers as he rose from the table. “Tell the sergeants to get their tunnels wired or collapse them.”
The junior officers responded with reasonable aplomb, but Magrid still chased them out of his presence with a pointed salvo of curses. The captain knew that he was not an exceptional tactician, and strategy was often beyond him, but by the Virgin Mother, he knew how to motivate men.
To that end, he rounded on the bloodless corporal who had delivered the message.
“Don’t stand there like a landed fish,” he growled, shoving the crumpled piece of paper into the boy’s front pocket. “Get back down there and send a telegram to the major. ‘We are withdrawing to Bamyan, and if he has any sense, he will pull the rest of the cohort and follow suit.’”
The messenger stared for a second, mouth still hanging open, then spun and fled toward the communication center as another onslaught rumbled in the captain’s chest.
“The rest of you, get this mess sorted and my camp struck,” he shouted over his shoulder as he marched in the direction the corporal had run. He forced himself to keep a measured pace, knowing it wouldn’t do to have any of his men see him act frantic. Angry was fine—after all, angry men got things done—but a frantic man was one step away from panic, and that man was no use to anyone.
Magrid was very close to frantic, even if pride and training were keeping him together for the moment. His honor guard fell into step behind him, but their presence offered little comfort.
With the godforsaken Afghanis routed, he had minutes, maybe less, before those pasty devils of the German Army were pouring over and through the tunnels honeycombing the mountainside. Amir Amanullah’s forces, the rabble their allies called an army, had been the bulwark between his forces and the far more numerous enemy. Without that bulwark, the northern brutes could sweep him and his men away in a single assault.
Magrid didn’t think of himself as a coward, but he did not relish the idea of such an inglorious defeat. The second he’d read those two words, he’d known he was not going to throw his career or his men away in a futile defensive action. These cursed mountains had already taken their toll on his forces, with absolutely nothing to show for it. If he’d wanted to spend his time in a meat grinder, he would have stayed on the trench-striped wastes of Crna Bend or Monastir.
A percussive thump resounded from the tunnels.
The air was choked with dust and sulfurous smoke.
Another bark of profanity, less skillful than those before, spewed out of Magrid’s mouth, along with foul-tasting grit. The dust settled across the passage, turning the crimson uniforms of the Italian soldiers to a musty
