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

  “Dork,” Leera muttered.

  Bridget flashed her a disapproving look. “She’s your mentor.”

  Leera scoffed. “Doesn’t stop the gutter mouth.”

  “Ugh. That word.”

  “Sorry. Anyway, she’ll be back soon. At least, I hope.”

  The trio gathered their arms close to their chests to ward against the wind and danced from foot to foot in the thick snow, waiting for Jez to return.

  “Unnameables, it’s you, isn’t it?” said a screechy voice.

  The trio turned to see a pimply young girl of about fourteen. She had a round, honest face, with eyebrows tweezed to near invisibility.

  “You’re, like, ‘The Trio.’ ” She accented the words with air quotes and Leera instantly groaned.

  The girl fidgeted with her academy satchel, which was decorated with flowers and bees. She wore a burgundy robe, indicating she was 1st or 2nd degree.

  “Hi. I’m Gretchen. Ice, 2nd. I read all about you, you know. Is it true you can fly?”

  “How original,” Leera muttered.

  “Definitely not,” Augum said before Leera could go on. If she got going with her mischief, who knew what the girl would walk off believing. Leera once convinced a 1st degree student that she could make herself invisible with the phrase Imastinkytoddler. And, of course, it could only be uttered aloud before an entire class. That one had resulted in Leera getting a write-up with the word “Undignified” in bold red letters.

  “Oh.” The girl thought a moment. “But you can cast, like, Spells of Legend and stuff, right?”

  “We cannot,” Bridget said with a patient smile. “We’re 7th degree. Spells of Legend are 16th degree and higher. Unless we use a scroll, that is.”

  “But aren’t scrolls super expensive?” The girl’s cheeks reddened. “I mean, of course scrolls are super expensive! How silly of me.” A fat snowflake settled on her pimply nose and she quickly batted it off. “Err, I’m sorry, I’ve just heard how you three attend the academy, but since I don’t share any classes with you and you don’t stay in the dorms, I thought … I thought people were just making jests. I didn’t actually think that, you know …”

  The trio looked on.

  “So, uh, how did it feel to, like, to, you know, kill your father … and stuff?” She cringed at her own words.

  Augum wasn’t quite sure how to reply and he was tired of explaining he had repudiated his father. “Kind of had to.”

  “What’s it like owning your own castle? Is it big? Does it, like, do arcane stuff?”

  Leera raised three fingers, dropping one per point. “Tedious. Not really. Not really anymore.”

  The girl blinked. “Oh, you answered all of them.” She chortled nervously. “Smart. So, like, do you, you know, feel bad for taking eternal life away from people?”

  Bridget placed a calming hand on a ballooning Leera, speaking up before she exploded. “Actually, the Lord of the Legion’s idea of eternal life was turning everyone into undead minions so they could follow him around forever.”

  “Oh, yeah, I think I read that version of the story.”

  “That’s kind of why he became a necromancer,” Leera said with a straight face.

  Precisely, and despite what the Lord of the Legion had so oft proclaimed, it certainly wasn’t to give his followers eternal life, Augum thought. The Lord of the Legion had half the kingdom brainwashed into believing they’d live forever if they just did his bidding. Many fools had obeyed, all right … all the way to their graves. Or, in most cases, to becoming a walking skeleton in service to the man, for his sole aim had been to raise a massive army of undead with which to build his empire.

  “Right …” Gretchen twiddled her thumbs. “So why are you dressed like that, anyway?” Her face lit up. “Ooh, you nominated a family for the throne, didn’t you! I heard that was today. So which one did you settle on? Was it the Beaumonts, the Brewersons, the Southguards—I bet you it was the Southguards, wasn’t it? That Eric is a dream. You know he’s the heir of Southguard? I mean, like, he doesn’t own a castle like you yet, but he will one day. He hasn’t dated anyone yet as far as I know—his folks are all sorts of prudish like that—but word is he’s got a huge crush on you, Princess Bridget.” She wiggled her fingers before her while screeching, “Jealooooouuuus!”

  “Uh, actually, I didn’t nominate anyone,” Augum said.

  The girl’s mouth fell open. “Oh. Isn’t that, like, super insulting?”

  “We knew a Gretchen once,” Leera said.

  “Really? What was she like?”

  “She was a grumpy servant who got her face smashed in by a demon.” Leera frowned in concentration as she tapped her lips. “We believe she was later raised as an undead minion, but we can’t be sure.”

  Gretchen paled a little. “Ah. Well, it was real nice meeting you. I need to get to class. Bye then.” And she ran off up the snowy steps, nearly tripping over her robe.

  “That was unnecessary, Lee,” Bridget said.

  Leera mimicked Gretchen’s wiggly gesture. “Oh, it was necessary, all right.”

  Jez reappeared feet away with a thwomp, carrying a bundle of robes and satchels. “Here, Your Highnesses,” she snapped sarcastically, telekinetically shoving all the items at the trio. Augum and the girls each got a face full of robe while their stomachs caught their satchels. “Oof!” they chorused.

  “Triple Telekinesis,” Leera wheezed. “Nice.”

  “Lazy brats,” Jez muttered before snapping, “Impetus peragro,” and teleporting off with another thwomp.

  “Someone’s grumpy,” Leera said, picking up her leather academy satchel, which was overflowing with scrolls and books. The outside was etched with what the arcanists called “vulgar graffiti,” but to her were signs of rebellion. The largest was a sharp three-pointed star known as the witch’s mark, which covered the academy crest. She got away with that one because it happened to be an ancient mark of arcanery. There were also groups of symbols most of the arcanists wouldn’t be able to decipher. Those she was most proud of, for they were witty profanities in the form of runic symbols, something she had learned in cryptography, one of her two electives. “Coolest skill in the world,” she oft remarked while doodling away on a parchment scroll. Never mind that she was practically failing that course, or every course that required extensive note-taking. Not that Augum, who was juggling more things than he could handle, was faring any better. Only Bridget seemed to excel at almost everything she did. Her satchel was in perfect condition and decorated with little hearts that fluttered around the academy crest. Green ivy was depicted running along the seams. “A suitable decoration for an earth warlock,” Brandon Summers, her rebellious boyfriend, had stated.

  Augum’s satchel, on the other hand, was worn and scratched, not at all what a prince’s satchel should look like. At first, Augum had taken perfect care of it, oiling the leather and cleaning every groove of the crest, but he had lost interest as soon as a few scratches appeared.

  “That didn’t take long,” Jez had remarked upon seeing it in its diminished state. Augum had only shrugged.

  Looking around, Augum noticed that a small crowd of young warlocks in burgundy robes had gathered by the statue.

  Bridget glanced up at them. “Let’s get changed and head to class.”

  “What classes do we have today, anyway?” Leera asked, forcefully stuffing a scroll back into her satchel, apparently not caring about creasing the parchment, something the arcanists took marks off for.

  “Shoot, I missed Survival class,” Augum replied, referencing a small worn scroll that listed his academy schedule. Every Solian month was composed of thirty days—three tendays, or six quints with five days per quint. Each quint was comprised of four class days and one study day, which the lazier students spent doing nothing rather than studying.

  Each class day had three two-hour classes, with extracurricular activities after the third afternoon bell. Thus, the trio had twelve classes in total, sharing ten
of them, leaving two electives. Survival class was one of Augum’s two electives. Other students had more, but the trio was still playing catch-up, having missed classes for their first five degrees due to the war. A lot of that catching up came in the form of cramming after hours.

  Survival was a military-style class that Augum enjoyed because he was learning all the things he wished he had known during the war, like how to build an ice shelter in a blizzard, or find food in the desert, or make a spiked pit trap. And it was one of the few classes he truly excelled at. Not that a prince was expected to ever use those skills, but still …

  Bridget grimaced. “I missed Mythology. Hope Laud took notes for me.”

  “Cryptography here,” Leera said. She shrugged. “Oh well.”

  “Theory of Standard Spellcraft next,” Augum muttered. “Then lunch, then Sword and Sorcery.”

  Leera brightened. “Ooh, one of my favorites.”

  “Which one, lunch?”

  “Shut up.”

  The Lecture Wing

  The trio strode up the Stairs of the Crescent Moon, past Mrs. Stone’s statue and on to the sprawling courtyard.

  The academy sat at the northern tip of the City of Blackhaven, the capital of Solia, and was shaped like a giant wheel with three spokes: the Lecture Wing, the Student Wing and the Elements Wing. The grounds were protected by some of the most advanced and ancient arcanery known, going back almost a thousand years to the founding of the school. That arcanery also allowed the headmaster or headmistress to “set” the area into whatever was needed. For tournaments, the entire courtyard was arcanely converted into an arena, complete with rickety ancient bleachers. For whippings, a central platform would be summoned. For other events, hundreds of tables and benches were made to appear, including a stage for outdoor theatrical productions.

  They hurried along to the portal that would take them to the Lecture Wing. Students gawked or pointed as they strode by. The trio had long taken to hurrying, as people were more likely to leave them alone that way.

  Bridget strode through the gargantuan portal first. The shimmering field of energy rippled and fizzed as she passed through it. Augum and Leera quickly followed. Augum rather enjoyed the tingling across his flesh, much like the gentle nibbling of fish when he submerged his toes in a stream.

  They zipped into existence on the other side of the great portal. The permanent portals to each wing were a legendary feat of ancient arcanery. For one, they were enormous, as if made for giants. They did not cause the same somersault sensation as teleporting or stepping through a standard summoned portal. And they did not blow a hurricane-force wind from the shimmering surface on either side, a hallmark of ordinary portals.

  Legendary feats of enchantment were a somewhat common sight around the grounds of the Academy of Arcane Arts. There were entire books dedicated to the history of the place and its permanent enchantments, and countless rumors of secret rooms, passageways and portals. It was a shame Augum hadn’t had time to explore any of the secret areas, or much else for that matter.

  They strode along the polished black basalt floors of the Hall of Rapture, a peculiar place laced with ancient arcanery long lost to the warlocks who now walked its polished stone floor. It was lit by dim amber light at all hours, year round, and often fluctuated depending on the weather outside. On stormy nights, the place flickered subtly like candlelight.

  But it was famous for its ceiling—or rather, its lack thereof, for it had none. The walls, set one hundred feet apart, shot skyward into infinity, instilling a sense of awe to all who craned their necks. A thick mist perpetually hung a thousand feet up, though some days it mysteriously cleared and the walls appeared to converge together in the vast distance. Some theorized it was nothing more than a grand illusion, except for the fact that there were tales of people climbing the polished walls with suction contraptions, only to never be seen again. Other tales told of the interior being on a completely different plane of existence, much like Ley or Hell. Some people swore they saw birds flit between the distant walls, as if there were little holes up there. But no one could corroborate anything since warlocks, for all their majestic arcanery, could not do one thing: they could not fly. Whatever kind of trickery it was, from the outside, the wing had a rounded plain black stone roof and was shaped like an elongated loaf of bread.

  Augum, hurrying along behind the girls, enjoyed seeing younger students gaze up in awe, pointing and talking in hushed voices. The Hall of Rapture forced the mind to kneel in reverence, readying it for the complexities needed to comprehend the advanced nuances of arcanery.

  “Unnameables, I love this wing,” Augum muttered. Invoking the gods was an old tradition in this sacred hall, for comparing like with like—the infinity of the gods with the infinity of the hall—seemed wholly appropriate.

  Augum, having grown up believing he was a gutterborn orphan, enjoyed tradition, for it gave him a foundation to stand on. It was partly why he loved the idea of Arcaners—warlock knights who followed a code of chivalry and had ancient customs steeped in rich traditions. As long as those traditions didn’t involve the stuffy kind that came with nobility, or looking at ledgers, or how one held one’s plate before a royal.

  They soon began to pass classroom doors inset into deep alcoves in the wall. The frequency of doors steadily increased from a small smattering to a deluge. Each was made from black oak and etched with a class title, degree, and the accompanying traditional rune. From his limited explorations, Augum knew that after the classrooms for the 15th degree, the doors grew sparse again, until some distance down the hall, perhaps a few hours’ walk, there was a sign saying the rest of the hall was closed to students. Of course, one could go on, and on, and on, but the vast loneliness of the place, the sheer isolation, was said to make even the most stalwart heart turn back. And there was a rumor that, after around a tenday of walking, the hall dimmed until it plunged into darkness, forcing the brave explorer to use their arcanery for light. There were countless stories of failed expeditions.

  “Did you know some kid left on a dare and never returned?” Leera stated as if she had read his mind.

  “That’s just another rumor,” Bridget replied, examining the doors, looking for the right room. Around them, the number of students dwindled, for it was class time and they were late.

  “No, it’s true. Some 3rd degree kid. I heard Fungal talking about it with Gonzalez.”

  “Fungal teaches Drama. He’s a storyteller. He’s no doubt responsible for half of the ridiculous stories floating around here.”

  “True, he teaches Drama, but he also teaches Runes and Literature. Anyway, I’m pretty sure he was serious. Besides, out of the two of us, you’re the more gullible one. I’d know if he was making it up.”

  “But what makes him a good Drama teacher is his flair for dramatics.”

  “Oh for—I give up.”

  “Ah. Here.” Bridget stopped before a beaten door. Neatly etched into it were the words Theory of Standard Spellcraft, 8th Degree, along with a squiggly non-arcane rune. Nearly a thousand years’ worth of 7th degree warlocks had placed their hands on this door, giving it an almost cherry patina.

  Leera punched Augum’s shoulder. “Avert thine devil eyes, fiend.”

  “Right.” He turned his back on them, checking to make sure no one was about. Any remaining students were specks way down the hall. “You know, we could have just used an empty room.” Changing in the halls was a most decidedly unprincelike thing to do.

  “And risk walking in on a lecture in progress?” Leera sniped back. “No thanks.”

  “Well, hurry up already.”

  “Shut it. Girl’s got to primp, you know. Yeesh.”

  “Quiet, you two,” Bridget whispered.

  The girls finished changing and gave Augum a moment to do the same. He was happy to get rid of the froufrou nobility outfit that made him want to click his heels in midair like a jester, complete with a raised pinky. He stuffed the cursed outfit into his satchel a
nd smoothed out the creases in his amber robe, giving the crest extra attention. Wearing the academy robe made him feel like himself again.

  “Done. Go,” he said.

  Bridget reached for the ancient brass handle and took a deep breath before pulling the door open. Its hinges squealed as if under attack, and twenty-one pairs of eyes greeted them. Every 7th degree warlock in the entire kingdom that hadn’t yet hit their ceiling sat inside this room. Their numbers were significantly lower after the war, and lack of ambition had reduced them further. Arcanery, after all, became increasingly difficult with each degree. The craft culled students ruthlessly even though the old dangerous way of training had been phased out due to parental concerns trumping tradition. Augum had experienced the old method with Mrs. Stone. It was the way of anguish and pain, yielding rapid advancement in the arcane arts. It was war training done in the field. On horseback. Along the edges of cliffs under burnt skies. And it was the way of the Arcaner.

  These days the study of the arcane arts took a more even-tempered approach, with a few hours of arcanery here and there and a library’s worth of drab theory. Needless to say, Augum pined for a bit of pain in exchange for some action and practical lessons.

  This classroom was typical of those in the Lecture Wing. It was one hundred feet square and, because it was part of the same ancient arcanery as the Hall of Rapture, had no ceiling. The walls were polished and the color of amber, mirroring the traditional color of the 7th and 8th degree robes they wore. Desks ran auditorium-like along stepped rows that spanned the length of the room, with seating for hundreds of students.

  “I’d have preferred you not come at all instead of arriving late, Your Highnesses,” said the flat voice of Arcanist Gulliver Flagon. The word arcanist originally came from the word Arcaner, as most teachers in the academy used to be Arcaners. But as the order dwindled, the word had morphed into arcanist.

  Flagon was a tall and overbearing man with a scraggly beard and thin reading spectacles that hung around his neck like a noose. One hand was at his side, fingers rubbing together. The other held an open book.