Burden's Edge (Fury of a Rising Dragon Book 1)

by Sever Bronny

  Augum flinched at the noxious stench in the room. Flagon had the worst body odor of any man alive or dead, the kind that hit students as they walked into the room. Hence his nickname Gully Wagon, the seedy name for a manure wagon. The odor had a double-tap effect—the initial repulsive sniff, followed by the eventual forced deep inhale after an exhalation of held breath while running to a distant seat.

  The stench was often responsible for students skipping class, particularly when one was not feeling well. Luckily, attendance was not mandatory at the academy. Only the exams were. It was a clever way to weed out the unmotivated, a policy that was already taking its toll on Augum and Leera. They had missed more than a few classes due to exhaustion, laziness, depression, or even pawing at each other in some deserted room.

  “Sorry, sir, we were kept at the ceremony,” Bridget replied as the trio rushed to three empty seats next to a friend. The entire first two rows were empty, for no one braved such proximity to Arcanist Flagon.

  “Ah, and how did the public announcement go, Prince Augum? I trust you chose my house, of course.”

  The students chortled at the irony, for Flagon was known to be wretchedly poor on account of his drinking and gambling, the former saddling him with a bulbous, veined nose and the latter forcing him to pinch coppers. His chronically unkempt black academy robe was rumored to have been woven in the time when cave people had first discovered the spark of fire.

  After taking his seat at the mahogany desk, Augum flashed a brief smile at some of the familiar friendly faces. He hadn’t gotten to know everyone yet because of time constraints, but he hoped that would change in due course.

  “Is His Legendary Highness too high and mighty to respond to a lowly servant such as I?” Arcanist Flagon pressed.

  Augum started. “Uh … sorry, sir?”

  “I asked which house you chose to back for the throne, a choice that should finally bring our wretched kingdom out of the darkness of your father’s days and into the light of wisdom, learning and leadership.”

  The entire class was staring at him.

  “Uh …”

  Flagon made a lazy looping gesture with his old course book. “Stand up, please, and make yourself heard, young man.”

  Augum’s chair screeched on the stone floor as he stood. “I chose no one.”

  Flagon gaped at him. “I beg your pardon, Stone?”

  “I chose no one, sir.”

  Suddenly another chair screeched. Augum looked down the rows to see Elizabeth Beaumont the Third, Head of Student Council and an obnoxious party girl, stand. She had helped the Resistance in the war a little, which to her meant her family deserved the throne. Her pestiferous mother and father had almost scraped Castle Arinthian’s high vaulted ceilings with their noses when they deigned to make an appearance to push their case for the throne, which had mostly consisted of reading a carpet-length scroll detailing the unimpeachable heraldry of the bloodline, its righteous value to the kingdom and its unassailable wealth.

  “How dare you insult my family in such a way!” Elizabeth slowly glanced around the room through a curtain of fine, long blonde hair, no doubt drawing upon her Drama studies. “To be so soiled and unworthy. Such castigation. In such a public manner. One would never have suspected this kind of betrayal …” She raised a shaking hand to her forehead.

  Augum could scarcely believe he had ever called her a friend. But then again, as Jez had said, “War makes people do strange things, even be nice sometimes. But mostly be complete idiots.”

  Leera stood and began to clap. “Bravo. What a performance. Bravo indeed! Does anyone have a rose we can pelt her with?”

  “Lee, sit down,” Bridget hissed.

  Flagon rubbed his forehead. “Jones, Beaumont—take your seats.”

  Leera and Elizabeth sat down with crossed arms.

  Augum felt the need to explain, but thought it useless. How could they possibly understand that he wasn’t willing to gamble everything he and the girls had sacrificed on some unknown prancy-fancy family blowing smoke up their robes?

  “You disregarded everyone?” asked the crisp voice of Eric Southguard, heir to Southguard, a defensive stronghold near Solia’s southern border with Canterra. “Even my family? Even after we offered all those generous concessions?” he asked plainly, and there seemed to be genuine confusion in his light gray eyes, which briefly danced to Bridget. Augum recalled all too well that he had taken her aside in Castle Arinthian and made his family’s case directly to her instead of Augum. The snooty conniver somehow knew she was the brains behind the research, and Augum resented him for that.

  “Stand if you’re going to speak, Southguard,” Flagon said. “Just because you’re an only child doesn’t give you airs here.” Usually, he did not put up with interruptions in class, but even he seemed interested in the drama.

  Eric stood to face Augum. Tall, muscled, handsome and intelligent, he was apparently the dream catch of every girl at the academy and the envy of every boy. “We came with good intentions, Augum. And you publicly rebuked us by considering my family unworthy of the throne.”

  “You and your cousin had good intentions,” Augum replied, glancing over at Eric’s cousin, Katrina Southguard, who, with her musical voice, light olive skin and long dark hair, was regarded as one of the prettiest girls at the academy. “Yeah, you seemed to want to help the kingdom with a few concessions for the needy.” Though he suspected that was because Bridget had made it clear that the war-ravaged needy were a priority for them.

  “But your father …” Augum recalled seeing Lord Rupert Southguard in the audience, that fat boar face of his curled up in a coldly condescending and expectant smile that had curdled the moment Augum said that powerful word: no.

  “My father knows what he is doing. We need to shore up our defenses.” Eric, who was the same age as Augum, moved his hands with each point as if guiding armies along a map, although the gesture came across as rather awkward and unfamiliar. “We need to make alliances. And we need to send a strong message to the Canterrans—”

  “By marrying Bridget off to the highest bidder?”

  There were gasps throughout the room.

  Damn it, he hadn’t meant to let that slip. He could feel Bridget’s eyes boring through him like spears. It was just that thinking of Eric’s father made his blood run hot. His parents were the epitome of everything he hated about scheming nobles. He especially hated the way they barely concealed their honeyed insults. He’d never forget the moment that slippery wife had suggested that if the trio really wanted to help the needy, they should sell the castle and donate the proceeds.

  Well, there was no turning back now.

  “I do not appreciate your family treating my friends like pawns,” Augum snapped.

  As Augum silently cursed himself for losing his head, Eric studied him. He was far too cool, too statesman-like to react rashly the way Augum had.

  Someone else stood up beside Bridget. Augum did not need to look over to know who.

  “What was the offer?” Brandon asked through gritted teeth. “Aug?” He had high cheekbones, shaggy walnut hair and wore a folded bandana that went across his forehead. He was known as the “bad boy jester” of the class, constantly getting into trouble for one thing or another. But what he lacked in discipline and studiousness he made up with his devotion to Bridget, as opposite as the two were. Unfortunately, the pair had been quietly bickering of late. Augum suspected her aggressive tutoring was the cause, though it was no doubt the only reason Brandon had managed to hang in there all the way to the 7th degree, for he was one of the poorer performing students in the class.

  “Lord Southguard offered a large dowry to Castle Arinthian’s coffers in exchange for a match between his son—” Augum glanced to Eric, standing cool as ever. “—and Bridget.” He finally summoned the courage to look at her. She was pale, mouth slightly agape. He could not tell whether she was in shock or utterly livid.

  Brandon whipped around to glare at Eric. �
��Was that your idea? Hmm? What, because I’m so lowborn I don’t belong with a princess? Never heard that one before,” he hissed sarcastically.

  Eric now studied Brandon, tapping his amber robe as he pondered the matter over.

  “It wasn’t his idea,” Katrina said in her musical voice. She stood to address the class as whispers permeated the room. Round spectacles hung on the end of her nose, a style mimicked by other girls, one that said to people, Do what you will, I’m interesting regardless. Augum didn’t know her very well as she had only recently joined the academy and mostly kept her distance from the other students. He sometimes caught her staring at him though, to which she always casually looked away as if nothing had happened.

  “Settle down, people, let them speak,” Flagon said, bouncing back and forth on his heels. “It is not often history is made in our little classroom, is it?”

  Katrina’s intelligent silvery-gray eyes flicked between Augum and Brandon. “My cousin had nothing to do with the match. My aunt and uncle are merely … strong-willed. But their hearts are for the kingdom.”

  Brandon snorted. “Southguard hearts are set upon only one thing.” He rubbed two fingers together, indicating gold.

  More gasps from the class. This time, Flagon did not silence them.

  “What’s your house motto again?” Brandon continued. “ ‘Greed above all’? Or something like that?”

  The class tittered.

  “ ‘The mind is sharper than the sword,’ actually,” Eric replied, hands traveling behind his back.

  “More like ‘The purse is heavier than the heart.’ ” But Brandon’s joke elicited no giggles this time. People seemed to realize the gravity of the situation far better than Brandon. “Everybody knows you have the hots for my girlfriend. Why not be honest about it instead of getting your slimy father to make a match for you? It’s sleazy. You’re sleazy. Your whole family’s sleazy.”

  The silence couldn’t be broken with a battering ram.

  “And what, pray tell, is your house motto, Summers?” Eric asked in delicate tones, face expressionless.

  Brandon squared his jaw, but he said nothing.

  “Ah, that is right, you do not have one. You insult my family so carelessly, yet you yourself are …” But he was careful to stop short of saying anything else.

  “Go ahead, say it,” Brandon spat. “Say what’s always on your haughty mind. Call me gutterborn. Do it.”

  Hands shot to mouths as the class gasped. That word was not uttered. Ever. It was the crudest, most insulting word known.

  As people turned their heads to witness Flagon’s reaction, Eric raised his chin. “I was going to say … underprivileged.”

  The class sat in stunned silence as the two adversaries eyed each other.

  “Right.” Flagon gestured at his ancient mahogany desk. A drawer popped open and out floated a small parchment scroll, followed by a quill and inkwell. Flagon supervised as the quill scratched a note across the parchment. The entire class waited with bated breath. When the scratching ceased, the quill and inkwell gently floated back into the drawer, which shut with a smack. Flagon turned to Brandon, telekinetically floating the scroll over to the young man.

  Brandon angrily snatched it out of the air.

  Flagon raised a single finger and slowly pointed at the door. “Get the hell out of my class.”

  The Academy Herald

  By lunch, word of what had happened between Brandon and Eric had spread like wildfire. Augum, Bridget, Leera and Brandon sat gloomily in the Supper Hall, located in the Student Wing of the academy. The hall, like the entire Student Wing, resembled the interior of a spacious castle, with crude gray and tan stone block walls covered with tapestries, paintings of historical scenes and legions of ancient crests and banners. Some of the stone blocks were charred black and said to be from the ruins of another academy built long before this one. Arcanely lit iron torch sconces dotted the walls and dragon motif wagon-wheel chandeliers fluttered with candlelight, the latter hanging from an arched ceiling supported by giant cedar beams. Snow fell beyond tall stained-glass windows depicting warlocks in various occupations of their craft. The entire place bubbled with hundreds of voices. More than a few pairs of eyes glanced the trio’s way.

  Bridget was still silent, aggressively stabbing the potatoes on her plate. Augum and Leera exchanged a knowing look. An angry Bridget was a Bridget to be trod around delicately.

  Augum nodded at the scroll sitting forlorn and crumpled near Brandon. “The usual write-up?”

  “Worse. This time I have to see Iron Byron.”

  “I still can’t believe he brought whipping back,” Leera muttered.

  Anna Atticus Stone had immediately banned whipping upon assuming headmistress duties over fifty years ago. But Headmaster Cuthbert Byron, who also served as Lord High Warlock on the kingdom’s high council, had the kind of character that didn’t tolerate anything other than complete obedience. Some said he had brought whipping back simply because a student had loosed a pig into his office and it had made a disgusting mess before being discovered. Thus far, there had been relatively few whippings, and Augum hoped it would stay that way. Not that the students hadn’t seen worse things during the war, and even post war, when there had been a slew of public hangings of former Legion worshippers.

  Augum had gotten a firsthand dose of Byron’s iron nature when he visited his office to inquire about restarting the Arcaner course. The man had gone livid, saying Arcaners were a “complete nuisance who stuck their noses into everybody’s business and used to bring no end of trouble to the academy.” Then he had gone on to lecture Augum that having a vigilante warlock force was “about the last thing the poor kingdom needed.” Augum had avoided the man since.

  Brandon sat up and glowered at Augum. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me they wanted to hitch Bridget up with that sack of slushed ice?”

  “I didn’t want to trouble either of you with it. Sorry, I didn’t mean to let it slip. I should have kept my damn mouth shut.”

  “You certainly should have.” Brandon sighed and muttered, “It’s always you three getting the attention. Got more than I bargained for, didn’t I?” He used his knife and fork to splay the scroll open and spoke with his mouth full. “ ‘Notice of malfeasance: Pupil Brandon Summers is hereby given an official written reprimand and is to present himself to the headmaster at third afternoon bell on this, the eighteenth day of the eleventh month, the year 3342, for use of the word—’ ”

  “Don’t you dare repeat that word, Brandon Summers,” Bridget hissed, fork poised above her peas.

  “I wasn’t going to,” Brandon said in a small voice, adjusting his bandana.

  “And must you talk with your mouth full? It’s disgusting.”

  He swallowed his food and let the scroll furl closed with a shloop. “Bridge? I’m sorr—”

  The fork instantly swiveled to him. “Don’t. Just … don’t. We talked about you losing your head. They could expel you. Do you understand? Arranged marriages are a stupid highborn tactic as bad as love-trapping. You should have known better.”

  “He was goaded into it, Bridge,” Augum delicately said.

  The fork swung to him. “And you! When were you going to tell me?”

  “I … I wasn’t going to. I wanted to—”

  “—protect me?” She placed her fork down, shoved the plate aside and carefully folded her arms, glaring at him.

  Augum rubbed his forehead. “All right, I should have told you.”

  “You should have told me. The heralds will hear about this, you know that. Cry was taking notes the whole time.”

  Gods, he hadn’t even thought about the heralds. As if on cue, in strolled Cry Slimwealth, the sniveling reporter for the Academy Herald. The fellow 7th degree lightning warlock slouched along between the tables, thin, pimpled, disheveled, and with droopy eyes that said, I really don’t give a single damn what you think. He came from a family of tax collectors. Worse, Cry’s father was on the hi
gh council as Lord High Treasurer, and they were one of the noble families contending for the throne. Augum recalled their visit to the castle. Awkward, to say the least. Just like Cry was.

  “Your Highnesses,” Cry said, giving a small mocking bow. His droopy eyes flicked to Brandon. “Summers.”

  Brandon crossed his arms and sat back. “Fry Himself.” Brandon had made up the nickname after Cry had almost killed himself trying to perform an arcane feat of lightning, a feat Augum also had trouble casting, for it involved overdraw, a dangerous thing for a warlock to do as it could easily result in arcane sickness or death.

  As lackadaisical as Cry seemed, he was gifted and had rapidly advanced through the degrees. But he was also whiny and dour, traits he got mocked for, mostly by Brandon.

  “ ‘Fry Himself.’ That never gets old,” Cry said sarcastically. “Ever try thinking of something original, or does that bandana block that kind of stuff?”

  “Yeah, well, come to drool all over us?” Brandon spat awkwardly, earning a warning look from Bridget.

  Cry didn’t take the bait. He gestured at the bench beside Bridget. “May I sit down?”

  Bridget made a languid, You might as well gesture.

  “Thank you.” The tiny sixteen-year-old sat himself down and slowly began rooting through his satchel, which was scrawled with sayings like The gods gave us mouths to speak, The repressed are the strong, and Truth is a public trust, whatever that meant.

  “Going to spout more lies about us?” Leera asked. It was well known that the Academy Herald published gossip more than student affairs, almost more so than the Youth Herald—a parchment magazine of pure scandal and teenage fluff. But the arcanists usually kept their hands off, considering the entire endeavor a valuable lesson for everyone involved.

  “We call it like we see it,” Cry replied, withdrawing a scroll, quill and inkwell.

  “What’s the angle?” Leera pressed.