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

  Burden’s Edge

  Fury of a Rising Dragon: Book One

  SEVER BRONNY

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any similarity to actual persons, living or deceased, establishments of any kind, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Bronny, Sever, 1979-, author

  Burden’s Edge / Sever Bronny.

  (Burden’s Edge ; book one)

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-7751729-0-1 (softcover)

  ISBN 978-1-7751729-1-8 (ebook)

  I. Title. II. Series: Bronny, Sever, 1979- . Burden’s Edge ; bk. 1.

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  Version 1.0

  Copyright ©2017 Sever Bronny Ltd. All rights reserved. Map design by author. Cover design by Deranged Doctor Designs. For information about permission to reproduce certain portions of this work, please contact the author at [email protected] or via www.severbronny.com

  A Sea of Painted Faces

  With a single word, Augum Stone made an enemy of every highborn snot bag vying for the throne.

  “I beg your pardon, Your Highness?”

  Augum raised his chin. “I said, no.”

  The hundreds of fluttering candles around the Grand Royal Hall, the largest of several halls in the ancient Black Castle, seemed to still.

  The Lord High Steward’s brows traveled up his forehead as his audience rustled with whispers. He slithered a finger along his embroidered robe, a weasel smile spreading across his lips. The pair of them stood on a wide carpeted platform before an empty gilded chair—the throne of Solia. And the pasty old schemer was enjoying himself.

  “Are you telling us, Prince Augum Arinthian Stone, Lord of Castle Arinthian and Hero of the Resistance, that after turning down the throne for yourself, and after killing the last man who occupied that throne—your own father, mind you—”

  “He had ceased to be my father,” Augum interrupted, conscious of the throne looming behind him like a bird of prey.

  The steward’s features lit up with pretend surprise. Beyond him, the sea of Solian nobility stirred, their painted faces contorting in dramatized disgust as if the idea was a foul stench that had dared to invade their upturned nostrils.

  “We parted blood in the old way,” Augum explained, recalling that fateful moment on the drawbridge of this very castle when the Lord of the Legion had denounced him as a blood traitor and Augum had shot back with a formal familial repudiation.

  “You parted blood in the old way,” the Lord High Steward repeated. Behind him, eyelashes fluttered like offended butterflies.

  “That is what I said.” Yet Augum hadn’t meant to let venom slip into his voice. All he wanted was to be left alone to catch up on his studies at the academy, to train with his friends, to spend time with his beloved, and to mind the affairs of his castle, affairs he had been failing at miserably over the last several months.

  The Lord High Steward began pacing on the platform. “You are Solia’s prince, famous for feats of legend in the arena and on the field of battle. The heralds dubbed you ‘the Heart of the Resistance.’ In fact, at only sixteen years of age, you are probably the most renowned young warlock in all the seven kingdoms of Sithesia, would you not agree?”

  Augum was acutely aware of every judging eye upon him. He glanced to a stained-glass window depicting a mighty king, sword in hand, a moose dead at his feet. He could just make out fat snowflakes lazily drifting through the clearer portions of the glass. It made him long for a cozy fire.

  “I’m an ordinary warlock, nothing more,” he said.

  The Lord High Steward’s beady eyes trawled across the audience. “An ordinary warlock.” The crowd tittered at the sarcastic repetition.

  Augum nodded stiffly. Get to the point, you cantankerous buzzard.

  “An ordinary warlock who, with two other ordinary warlocks, vanquished the most powerful necromancer to have lived since Occulus.”

  Augum kept his mouth shut. Sure, he knew one ancient off-the-books spell, but he was an average warlock in all other respects, if not a touch advanced for his degree. The problem was the heralds, the fireside songs and the tall tales had combined to elevate his prominence to near mythical proportions. People thought he could perform miracles. It was ridiculous.

  The Lord High Steward smiled, exposing crooked yellow teeth. “An ordinary warlock who took his first life at the age of fourteen.”

  Four lives in total. But that was war.

  “An ordinary warlock descended from the legendary Atrius Arinthian. An ordinary warlock who mentored under the accomplished former headmistress of the Academy of Arcane Arts, Anna Atticus Stone, your great-grandmother.”

  Augum fought to keep his breathing calm while the audience stirred.

  “An ordinary warlock whose very name, along with those of your renowned peers, Princess Bridget Burns and Princess Leera Jones—” The Lord High Steward gave a sleazy nod to the girls, who sat in the front row, faces tight with anxiety. “—is synonymous with heroism, chivalry and courage. Oh yes, a common man of the people.”

  The crowd tittered again at his sarcasm. The old windbag waited for them to settle down before resuming his hunched pacing, voice rising. “An ordinary warlock who is now telling those gathered in our historic hall that after deposing the vicious tyrant who starved and enslaved our kingdom; that even as our enemies to the south clamor for any excuse to invade our severely weakened kingdom in revenge; that after meeting all these esteemed noble families—” The High Steward stopped to slowly sweep an arm across the audience. “He will not deign to place an iota of his support behind a single … noble … family?”

  The audience hummed as if they were strings on a lute played by a master.

  Augum needed to slow the pace. “I mean those in attendance no offense,” he said in measured tones. “I simply cannot nominate a family for the throne at this time.” He glanced at Bridget, whose hands were pressed tightly together, her knuckles white. They had gone through hell and back together during the Legion War, and he considered her a sister. Although she had not told him which family to support, she had certainly tried arming him with the knowledge to make a responsible decision. She had taken great pains in researching all the families, teaching him the unfathomable patience required to interact with nobility, and arranging meetings with each of the families coveting the throne. And now it seemed he had let her down.

  Yet despite all her preparations, he wasn’t ready to choose a family. The problem was the nobles had insisted on him breaking the stalemate despite the fact that it was the high council’s job to appoint a king, not his. It wasn’t his fault the high council couldn’t form a majority opinion and the throne had sat empty for over a year. With the threat of invasion by the Canterrans, the future of the kingdom rested on his choice, and he needed more time to make a decision he could live with. He would need to study each family member from top to bottom, find out where their interests and allegiances truly lay, where their money came from, and what they had done during the war.

  Grudgingly, Augum had to admit that he’d had enough time but had been too distracted by his own problems. Management of Castle Arinthian was wearing him down, and its expenses were mounting with no way to raise funds. He was behind in his studies, perpetually playing catch-up. But above all, the Occupation Ceremony was coming up and he had secretly set his mind on a profession sure to stir up even more controversy.

  The Lord High St
eward, who had been patiently watching him, languidly raised a withered hand. “Prince Augum, would you kindly explain to this esteemed body exactly why you refuse to back a single noble family, knowing how much weight your young word carries in the kingdom? And by all means, take another protracted pause to think carefully on your reply.”

  Augum clenched his teeth as the crowd chuckled. He turned to gaze at Leera. Her dark eyes were fixed on him, freckled pixie cheeks standing out like beacon fires. She looked utterly ridiculous in that burgundy puffy-sleeved dress, with its elaborate ruffles and pinched lines. She belonged in an academy robe, with dirt under her fingernails, hair tangled, and satchel overstuffed with mangled homework, her lips ready to deliver a witty remark … or a sharp spell.

  They had fallen in love while fleeing for their lives during the war. Kids playing at being warlock soldiers. Now they were in the autumn of their sixteenth year, a grown man and woman in the eyes of the kingdom. The Youth Herald considered them a “darling couple” and “heartthrobs”. The Academy Herald painted them as self-absorbed dilettantes. And the Blackhaven Herald routinely questioned why they hadn’t married yet.

  The higher truth was, he didn’t want to place all he and the girls had worked so hard for—what so many had sacrificed their lives for—on nothing more than a gamble, as far as he saw it. He didn’t trust the noble families. They had groveled too much while soliciting his support, and it was plain they had hated doing it. In their eyes, he was still the upstart gutterborn farm boy, son of the despot and the “brainwashed fugitive of the law,” as the heralds had oft proclaimed during the war. The families had offered money, favors, power and prestige. They swore that the venerable Academy of Arcane Arts, under constant threat of being defunded, would not be shut down, but watered and nourished like a spring garden. One family, the Southguards, had even floated the offer of a “highly advantageous” match for Bridget—never mind that Bridget was in love with another.

  Needless to say, he hadn’t told her about that particularly despicable proposition.

  Augum scanned the crowd of nobles. He saw an ocean of fancy dresses, garish jewelry and silly headpieces. Their flowery perfumes combined to make him woozy.

  “Prince Augum, your answer is long overdue.”

  “I have nothing more to say on the matter, Lord High Steward,” Augum declared and abruptly strode off the platform. The audience devolved into a hiss of scandalized whispers. As people stood, Bridget and Leera hurried after him. Without a word, they practically shoved him toward the side hall. Not a single soul bowed to them on their way out.

  An Ancient Hall

  “Prince Augum Arinthian Stone, do you realize what you have done?”

  Great, the full name treatment, complete with title. It was a lethal weapon coming from Bridget. She glared at him, arms crossed and head cocked. Leera stood beside her with the same look and pose, as if his stubbornness could only be comprehended when seen through half-narrowed eyes.

  “You haven’t thought this through, have you?” Bridget pressed.

  He gave an involuntary half-shrug. He had thought it through and concluded that he didn’t want to support any of the snot bags.

  The girls glanced at each other.

  “He just shrugged,” Leera said.

  “As if it was nothing,” Bridget added.

  “As if all the work you put in—”

  “—had bored him.”

  They again regarded him, their eyes narrowing further, cobras ready to strike.

  He swept chestnut hair from his forehead and opened his mouth to explain … only to freeze. Suddenly his reticence about wanting to back a noble family felt mighty difficult to put into words. Instead, he turned on his heel. “Come on, I want to show you something.”

  The girls gave an exasperated groan, but they followed nonetheless.

  He led them through the quiet side hall, accepting a stiff salute from a guard posted at the Lion’s Tower, and stepped into the Royal Supper Hall.

  A young servant in a prim black-and-white gown startled at their entrance. She immediately curtsied before hurrying off with a bowed head and crimson cheeks.

  Augum, now long used to such reactions, glanced around the hall. He did not see the long trestle dining tables and benches, or the platform with special seating for the royal family and the council. He did not see the coat of arms tapestries depicting the noble bloodlines. Nor did he see the cabinetry hiding golden flatware, bejeweled cups and porcelain plates, all under arcane lock and kept watch over by a bored guard. Instead, he saw what it all lazily covered up—the Great Arcaner Hall. Stories of Arcaners—warlock knights of ages past—were painted on the walls, embroidered in the tapestries, and carved into large fluted columns. All the major warlock elements were represented by degree stripes circling arms of every skin color. Their summoned shields were engraved with variations of the Arcaner crest—a mighty dragon sitting on a triple-spired black castle with the gilded motto Semperis vorto honos. Courage, fortitude, honor. Most had the motto, some also had the castle, but only a precious few included the dragon. Arcaners had wielded honor and justice with vigor and aplomb. They had dueled, attended court, explored ruins, defended the innocent, and honorably expanded the arcane craft—until the order mysteriously died out.

  Seeing these honorable heroes depicted so illustriously took Augum back to his childhood. He had been a runaway orphan, having escaped a ruthless foster family headed by a drunk. To this day, the scars the drunk had left on Augum’s back tingled whenever he thought about them. And nobody but the girls and his mentor knew. After all, a prince was not supposed to have a back covered in scars. It was uncouth and gutterborn. Nor was he supposed to show weakness, or fear, or worry, or … anything resembling humanity, really. Not as a prince. He was supposed to be regal and proud and refined and princely yet … humble.

  He was supposed to have backed a noble family like a good puppy.

  After his first childhood ordeal, he squired for a knight named Sir Tobias Westwood, who taught him the written word, how to get his hands callused with work, how to hunt, how to be chivalrous, and how to dream. And Augum had dreamed many dreams, most notably riding a horse into battle while ladies swooned.

  Those dreams and Sir Westwood’s eternal patience had carried him through the darkest days when kids bullied and taunted him for being a gutterborn orphan; through the lonely family holidays; through moments when he heard a friend say a kind word to another friend. It was the latter that had stung the most, for Augum had had no friends until his fourteenth year, when he met Bridget and Leera and went on an epic adventure with them. He cherished them more than everything else combined—money, titles, fame, his castle.

  But something had always lacked … and he had only recently figured out what that something was: a purpose. And the idea of becoming an Arcaner had given him that.

  Leera, her voice filled with gentle concern, brought him back to the moment. “Augum? Why did you bring us to the Royal Supper Hall?”

  Like a library, the vast quiet of the hall seemed to have softened the girls’ anger. They were standing at ease, arms loose by their sides. Bridget was slightly taller and leaner than Leera, who stood with what people of high breeding referred to as “atrocious posture.”

  “Every time we come to this castle, I make my way here.” He nodded at the ceiling. “Trintus Bladeofbright. He’s the one in the center defending this very hall from the Canterran scourge.” Knights in gleaming armor surrounded a black-skinned warlock engulfed in flames.

  “He’s not really on fire,” Augum added. “He’s wearing the Frock of Perpetual Fire, an artifact of honor given to him for being the greatest fire warlock.”

  “Yes, we know who the most famous Arcaner was,” Bridget deadpanned, scratching her pert nose.

  Augum pointed out others. “Isabel the Vengeful. Samus the Wise. Theodorus Winkfield, founder of the Library of Antioc. Vilnius Vivictus. Rebecca Von Edgeworth, known as Rebecca the Ready, one of the origin
al possessors of a scion, who died at Occulus’s hand.” The Leyans had forged the scions to defeat the vicious necromancer, Occulus. The seven fist-sized orbs, which powerfully amplified arcanery, had been distributed to the most powerful warlock of each element, regardless of kingdom.

  He stepped before the grand visage of a hard-looking warlock, one of the receivers of a scion, in the thrall of casting a lightning spell. “And Atrius Arinthian.” It had been a wonderful day when he discovered his ancestor had been an Arcaner. The man had become a legend for vanquishing Occulus in an epic final battle.

  Augum settled his gaze on the girls. “They were the best of the best in their times. And they were Arcaners.”

  “What’s with you turning into a teacher?” Leera asked.

  “Semperis vorto honos. Courage, fortitude, honor. Values that represent a purpose. Values higher than a hollow princely title. Higher than the ownership of land. Higher than gold and debt and stupid things like receipts and signatories and …” He became aware that he had clenched his fists, and relaxed them.

  “You do not mean that,” Bridget said. “You know there is honor in running a castle and keeping people fed and employed. And unlike others, you earned the title of prince. You sacrificed for the kingdom. And you almost died countless times.”

  “As did you two,” he whispered, pacing to a column and running his hand along the intricate carvings that told ancient stories in an ancient tongue. Stories of heroism. Of combat, death and boldness. The grime covering them was thick. No one had cared for these carvings in ages. No one had given them the kind of love he gave his ancestor’s tomb.

  “And this is not the ‘Royal Supper Hall,’ ” he said, unable to keep the edge from his voice. “This is the Great Arcaner Hall. This is where they gathered. Made kingdom-altering decisions. Shared stories. Even held dueling tournaments.”