Dragon Mage Academy Box Set

by Cordelia Castel

  “The Witch General—”

  “I know you’re here because the Witch General gave you to Madam Maritimus to redeem, but have any of the dragons blamed you for what you did?”

  She shook her head.

  “Now’s your chance to make amends. Just talk to the girls and be their friend. The youngest one is most likely to blurt out something incriminating.”

  Evolene nodded. “Will you forgive me if I do this?”

  “I never blamed you for the abduction, and I don’t understand why you didn’t ask any of the witches for help. You’ve got your reasons. But other people can take advantage of your power if you don’t learn to stand up for yourself.”

  Her shoulders sagged. “All right. I’ll find out what I can from the witches of Savannah.”

  I stepped away. “Thank you.”

  When I walked back to the drogott team, they all stared at me as though speaking to a witch was some kind of impressive feat. Stafford’s eyes were narrowed, but that was because he knew I wasn’t a male, and still thought Evolene was too kind and pretty to have committed any kind of crimes.

  Niger’s eyes were wide. “Are you courting Evolene?”

  I walked ahead, glanced at her over my shoulder. “Absolutely not.”

  Another cadet ruffled my hair. “Bluford has a way with the witches.”

  They all roared with laughter, and I cringed.

  Niger clapped me on the back, making me stagger forward a few paces. “There is a rumor about the duel.”

  “I haven’t heard it.” A faint aroma of cooking meat made my nose wrinkle.

  “Some say the missing dragon eggs are an excuse for a fight.”

  I smoothed down my hair. “What are you talking about?”

  A cadet with yellow eyes leered down at me. “They say you besmirched the honor of King Magnar’s eldest witch, and now he wants your head.”

  An image of the oldest girl popped into the forefront of my mind. “Freja?”

  The males roared with laughter, giving me hearty pats on the back, as though knowing the name of a witch was evidence of wrongdoing. I’d only sat with them in the mess hall once, and even then, I had made sure to keep an empty seat between us. I supposed that in an all-male institution like Mount Fornax where women were few and carried deadly weapons, silly rumors could spread like wildfire.

  As we continued down the hallway, the aroma of roasted meat became stronger, as did the sound of raucous chattering. The first signs of nervousness fluttered in my belly.

  “How can Bluford make a strong entrance when someone left the door open,” Niger muttered.

  We stood at the doorway, and my throat dried. The dueling room was a darkened space about half the size of the mess hall and opened into a grassy terrace. Flaming torches hung on the walls, creating the kind of atmosphere I’d only read about in scrolls depicting fighting pits.

  About three hundred rowdy dragon warriors crowded in the room, jostling each other and laughing over tankards of ale. Most of them weren’t even cadets! I wiped my damp palms on my leather breeches and slowed my breathing. It didn’t work. The frantic thumbing of my heart reverberated to my every extremity.

  “I thought all the warriors were looking for dragon eggs,” I said to Fyrian.

  “This lot are probably taking a break,” she replied.

  At one end of the room, Eyepatch stood behind a barbacoa of flaming coals set within a frame of bricks supporting a metal grill. He turned over foot-long bullfrogs on skewers. An assistant served the grilled frogs to eager warriors with a fluffy flatbreads he’d made on another grill.

  Next to them, a pair of servers dipped massive tankards into barrels of ale and handed them out to eager warriors.

  “Does this happen for every duel?” I muttered.

  “Only those involving people of interest,” Niger shouted above the chatter. “Her Majesty’s disguised son versus the warlord of Savannah is not a fight anyone would miss.”

  My shoulders sagged. If the twins ever discovered what I’d done, they’d make fun of me for a decade.

  Niger cupped his hands around his mouth. “Make way for Bluford!”

  The crowd parted, and King Magnar strode forward, clad in lightweight chainmail. A mail coif covered his blonde hair, neck, and shoulders, exposing only his sneering face.

  Behind him, his sisters wore similar outfits, except with knee-length chainmail skirts over their leg coverings. Freja held a horned helmet.

  On legs that felt like saplings in a sandstorm, I stepped out of the doorway, flanked by Niger and Stafford, and walked down the gauntlet of ogre hybrids roaring for blood. With each step, the crowd closed in, making my insides shrink. It was easy enough not to look at their faces, as most of the males stood half a foot taller than me.

  “Try to look tough,” said Fyrian.

  I pulled back my shoulders and bared my teeth at King Magnar.

  He threw back his chest and announced, “Bluford, I see that your fellow mages have found you from whence you hid. Do you deny your cowardice?”

  Snickers broke out among the observers.

  I raised my chin. “Your failure to inform me of the exact time and location of the duel proves your cravenness and low trickery.”

  The dragon warriors roared with laughter, and King Magnar flushed. Warm triumph spread across my chest. He’d probably told me the duel would take place in the swordsmanship room so he could win by default.

  Niger stood between us and gave a long introduction to King Magnar’s feats. Each conquest made my stomach churn. If it was to be believed, he recently single-handedly defeated the toughest warriors in the Midas Islands.

  “That little runt couldn’t defeat a bear cub,” said Fyrian.

  I grunted my agreement.

  “King Magnar, who will be your second in this duel?” roared Niger.

  “Magnar has never required a second,” said the King.

  The crowd drew in surprised breaths.

  “Oh,” said Fyrian. “He’s doing that thing where he talks about himself in the third person to look tough.”

  “Neither does Albert!” I cried.

  Nobody sounded impressed. Niger shrugged at Stafford, who had stepped up to volunteer to be my second. If I lost this duel, I would be the one who got hurt or had to grovel. I wouldn’t drag my friend into this.

  Niger continued his introduction. “You duel to first blood. Anyone who kills or permanently maims his opponent will lose by forfeit.”

  Throat convulsing, I unsheathed my saber. If witches couldn’t put me back together again, then winning by default would be no consolation.

  Evolene hovered at the front of the crowd, edging her way to King Magnar’s sisters. I gave her a shaky smile and nodded at her to continue.

  “Fight!” roared Niger.

  My heart jumped into my already dry throat. Gulping, I widened my stance. With so many dragon warriors watching, I couldn’t afford to lose.

  King Magnar attacked first with a thrust. I widened my stance, bringing up my sword to block. It was a light strike, reminding me of Mother’s gentle tutelage.

  “You’re underestimating him again,” snapped Fyrian. “He’s probably just testing you.”

  A lightning fast thrust at my throat caused me to step out of reach. My heart reverberated in my chest. King Magnar was fast, ruthless, and he meant to cause me maximum pain.

  “Hit him!” bellowed someone from within the crowd.

  I ignored the taunt and the laughter that followed. The stakes of this fight were too high to succumb to any urge to show off. If I didn’t defeat King Magnar, those eggs might be lost to Mount Fornax forever.

  “Little Princes shouldn’t make accusations if they’re not willing to back them up!” King Magnar raised his sword and lunged.

  I knocked away his strike with a twisting movement, and his sword flew into the crowd. Rufus leaped and caught it by the hilt. The warriors around him cheered, clapping him on the back.

  King Magnar
’s jaw dropped. “What?”

  Behind him, his sisters shared nervous glances. They were probably worried about their brother who had lost the duel.

  Niger stepped forward and grabbed my wrist. “Bluford wins due to disarming his opponent.”

  A mix of conflicting shouts came from the crowd: laughter at the duel having ended in such an embarrassing manner, cheers at the triumph of a dragon cadet over King Magnar, and growls from those who had come to see blood. The noises filled my ears, rising in volume until my eardrums rattled.

  Niger raised my arm in victory, and I lowered my sword. “That was… easy.”

  “Surprisingly so,” said Fyrian. “Maybe King Magnar forgot he didn’t have his champion to fight his battles.”

  The spoiled King stamped his foot. “We duel to first blood!”

  “Every part of your body is covered in chainmail,” I snapped. “The only place to draw blood is from your pretty face.”

  Roaring laughter filled the room. Everyone acted as though I’d told the funniest joke. Even Gobi smirked. I gripped my hilt. If King Magnar insisted on first blood but flinched while I slashed at his face, he could lose an eye.

  Veins bulged on his temple. In the flickering light of the wall sconces, they looked like worms writhing under his skin. The fury twisting his features made him appear more bratty than Chrysus during a tantrum.

  “Freja, give me my Redcap Helmet.” King Magnar held out his hand.

  The young witch’s eyes grew wide.

  “Now!” he roared.

  My stomach churned. If this was anything like the Sword of Lightning, I was in trouble.

  “Don’t forget you have the Parched Sword,” said Fyrian. “And I can lend you all my power if things become dire.”

  “All right.”

  I sheathed the saber and pulled out the Parched Sword. The green gauge glinted in the warm light.

  King Magnar’s eyes narrowed. He must have recognized it from yesterday’s Magecraft class. “Redcap Helmet.”

  Freja, who was becoming paler by the second, clutched the item to her chest. “But Maggie—”

  “Helmet!”

  My heart thrummed. How powerful could a simple helmet be?

  Fyrian didn’t offer any words of reassurance or encouragement. She was leaving it to me to decide whether to continue or insist that I had won the fight by disarming.

  I raised my chin. “Are we going to stand here all night getting dressed like a pair of Princesses going to the ball?”

  The crowd cheered, and King Magnar placed the helmet on his head.

  With a flash of red light so dark it appeared black, he transformed into the massive brute I’d seen in the betrothal portrait. King Magnar stood seven feet tall and twice as broad as all the half-ogres in the room. A busy, blond beard covered him from chin to collarbone, and murder burned in his eyes like turquoise flames.

  My eyes bulged. My mouth gaped open. Every last drop of blood drained from my face. This was the man Father had wanted me to marry. The warlord whose portrait and reputation I’d found terrible enough to disguise myself and escape. The monster who had usurped his own father and conquered his neighboring countries.

  White hot panic blazed through my veins, stretching out further than my own body. But it didn’t come from me. It belonged to Fyrian. She was terrified of this version of King Magnar.

  “Kill it,” Fyrian screeched. “Wipe that filthy thing from existence!”

  Chapter 14

  An eerie silence fell across the room. Nobody seemed to move, not even to breathe. The only sound came from the flames flickering on the wall sconces and from the crackling and popping of the bullfrogs cooking over the barbacoa.

  We all stared at King Magnar, who towered over us all like a living statue. The helmet fused to his chainmail and sat atop his head like buffalo horns. Even his armor had thickened, and a huge, two-handed sword now hung from his hip.

  My entire head and neck reverberated with a pulse that beat as hard as thunderclaps, and Fyrian held her breath, waiting for me to carry out her order. Her magic rushed through our bond, infusing my limbs and urging me to fight. The hand holding the Parched Sword twitched, but I kept it tight to my side. I wouldn’t attack someone for putting on a magic helmet. Especially not since I had already won.

  King Magnar pulled his lips back into a mockery of a smile. His teeth were filed to triangular points sharp enough to bite through a man’s neck. Then he pulled his sword out of its scabbard.

  The blade sang with the movement and reflected the firelight.

  “You have lost from being disarmed,” said Niger. “You cannot challenge Bluford to a second duel.”

  Mutterings broke out among the crowd. I would have looked at my allies for support, but I was caught in King Magnar’s flaming, turquoise glower.

  I gripped the handle of the Parched Sword with both hands. It would require all my strength not to fly across the room when our blades hit. This magical version of King Magnar looked like he could strike harder than Father and would not hold back.

  “Wait!” cried Stafford. “Magical artifacts aren’t allowed in a duel.”

  “Silence.” King Magnar’s voice sounded like grinding millstones.

  “Kill him!” cried Fyrian. “Do it now!”

  King Magnar raced toward me like a charging rhinoceros, sword raised in a one-handed, overhead grip.

  I widened my stance, digging my heels into my boots and put every ounce of power into my arm muscles.

  “Argh!” He crashed his sword down.

  Mine swung upwards to block the blow, which was twice as hard as Father’s strikes. Vibrations ran down my blade, through the grip, and into my arms, making the bones tremble to the marrow.

  The crowd erupted into cheers.

  I sidestepped, keeping out of his reach.

  “Coward,” he snarled, following my movements. Black magic curled off his blade like wisps of smoke.

  I couldn’t hear the rest of his words, because Fyrian screams filled my head.

  “Take my power. Destroy him!”

  The volume made me wince. “Fyri, be quiet!”

  She couldn’t hear me. She was lost in her fervor. Her panic engulfed my senses and swirled like a whirlpool. If I didn’t block her out, I would drown.

  King Magnar advanced on me and swung at my neck. I dropped to one knee and rammed the sword into his belly. The blade hit chainmail with a fizz, and black lightning bolts shot from our joined metal. My heart leaped and I pulled myself upright. Had I damaged his armor?

  Before I could make my next attack, he stepped back and roared. “Lucky strike. I will not underestimate you!”

  I straightened to the sound of the crowd’s cheer. “Brave words coming from a man who uses magic to enhance his strength.”

  He bared those terrible, sharpened teeth. “When I have cut you into pieces, no magic will put you together again.”

  Then as quick as lightning, he lunged, swinging his sword at my face.

  I spun, bringing up my own sword and deflected the blow. More of that black smoke billowed out from its blade, burning my sinuses, and I hacked out lungfuls of air.

  My head swam. This had to be some kind of poison. What kind of weakling used so many magical props for a simple duel to first blood?

  I pushed my own power through the Parched Sword, setting its edge alight. A hush fell across the crowd. Light blue flames stretched out three feet, so hot, their heat warmed the skin on my face, and so pale, they were nearly transparent. It felt like standing unprotected in the sun on a cloudless day.

  The air between us rippled, forcing me to squint.

  “Lance him!” Fyrian cried.

  With one slicing movement, King Magnar struck. Our blades met. A sizzling filled the air, and black smoke and filled my vision. I blinked. The movement felt like tiny grains of salt under my eyelids. No matter how much my eyes watered, I couldn’t clear my vision.

  “I will destroy you!” he roared.

/>   Another strike heavier than a boulder brought me to my knees.

  Cold fear, like a shower of ice water, washed over every inch of my skin. If I couldn’t see where King Magnar would attack next, I’d be killed. “Fyri… help!”

  Fyrian sent a rush of power through my body, blasting out the effects of the smoke. It was just in time to see King Magnar standing over me, sword raised in a two-handed grip, ready to cleave me in half.

  I rolled out of the way. His blade crashed into the stone, sending hundreds of tiny shards fling across the room.

  The crowd gasped.

  Fury burned through my veins. I couldn’t tell if it belonged to me or Fyrian. It no longer mattered. Our duel was supposed to be until first blood, yet he’d tried to deal a blow that could not be repaired by witch magic.

  Before I could get upright, he swung at my head with a decapitation strike. I slashed at his leg armor before diving away.

  Black magic flared, and I staggered upright, stumbling back into the crowd.

  Someone shoved me back toward King Magnar.

  His right leg had shrunk to its normal size, and he stood lopsided, staring down at himself. “What have you done?”

  He hobbled toward me, face contorted with fury. “You will die for destroying my enchanted armor!”

  I circled him, keeping out of his reach and holding my flaming Parched Sword in front of me as a barrier. “What in the Known World is this magic?”

  “You wretch.” Cold rage filled his voice. “I’ll rend you into quarters!”

  I lurched forward, jabbing his sword arm. Black magic flared once again, pushing me back. This time, I was prepared, and I widened my stance, crouching low. Then I shoved both our magic through the swords, doubling the size of its flames, and swiped at his left leg.

  Once again, King Magnar’s dark magic spread across the room. The armor turned black, and the leg restored to its normal size.

  The crowd fell silent. I suppose no-one had ever seen such a spectacle where a young man made himself huge through black magic artifacts, only to have his limbs restored one by one. By the time the magic cleared, King Magnar’s massive head and torso were supported by two normal-sized legs and one regular sword arm.