“Correct. Anything else?”
Thinking about Father, who was probably still fighting at the ogre senate to keep his position of Prince Regent, I raised my hand.
“Cadet Bluford?”
“Someone stronger than everyone else wouldn’t spend much time or effort in honing their skills.”
He inclined his head. “Excellent answer. Those who have a natural disadvantage must work harder to compete in an uneven fight.”
“Sir!” shouted Gobi from Rufus’ other side. “Magic swords.”
The Captain’s expression fell. “Explain.”
A flush spread across Gobi’s cheeks and down to his wispy, turquoise beard. “If you have a magic sword, you can win.”
Captain Pristis pursed his lips. “It is certainly something a weaker fighter can employ, but anyone may own an enchanted weapon.”
Our instructor launched into a story about encountering a wild dragon at a volcano who used the lava as a weapon. It was a black dragon, capable of manipulating the earth and cunning enough not to get close to the tamers. Throughout the tale, Gobi’s face turned redder and redder, making my heart twist for the young half-ogre. If only he didn’t take things so personally.
I raised my hand. “Sir? Didn’t the dragon masters try to communicate with him?”
“Many wild dragons see them as abominations and fairy sympathizers.”
On my right, Stafford coughed. “Why?”
The instructor leaned against the wall and folded his arms, as though making himself comfortable. “It’s a long story, but during their captivity in the realm of the fairies, the dragons endured terrible experiments. One such experiment gave a few of them the ability to take human shape.”
Stafford and I exchanged confused looks. I turned to Captain Pristis. “Are you talking about the Forgotten King?”
The riders on the other side of the room all groaned. I supposed they remembered the history lesson King Magnar took over where he asked Master Roopal question after question about the Forgotten King and his spriggans. Looking back on things, King Magnar should have asked the dragons directly for information and help instead of enacting a complicated plan to steal their eggs.
Captain Pristis rubbed his temples. “Have you not covered this yet in History of Dragons?”
“Not yet,” we chorused.
“Dragons experienced cruelty both at the hands of the Forgotten King and during their captivity with the Queen of the Fairies and her subordinates after he was banished. This is why dragons and fairies don’t mix.” He clapped his hands together. “But Master Roopal is best placed to explain what happened, not me. Everyone, get into pairs of one half-ogre and one quarter-ogre.”
Glancing down at my sword belt, I selected the wooden sword and turned to Rufus, but he’d already grabbed Stafford. Then I turned to search a half-ogre dragon rider who hadn’t yet partnered up with anyone.
Gobi stepped into my path and unsheathed the kind of curved scimitar Father preferred. “You are with me.”
I shrugged. “All right.”
Captain Pristis glanced around the room. “Stronger opponents, I want you to attack with all your might. Practice swords only!”
Gobi scowled and placed his sword back onto his belt and pulled out his wooden practice sword.
The sounds of shuffling feet and wood hitting wood filled the air. I strolled to a clear space in the classroom, away from the other sparring pairs. Gobi would likely take advantage of the Captain’s instructions and strike hard enough to knock me off my feet. With that in mind, I raised my sword, widened my stance, and dug my heels into the hard sandstone.
“Yaaa!” Gobi took a running jump from his side of the room and leaped through the air, sword raised in a two-handed, overhead grip.
My stomach dropped. At this rate, he would cleave me in half. I stepped back, just as his wooden blade snapped my practice sword in half. “Hey!”
In my moment of distraction, he swung at my left arm. I dodged, but not fast enough. The strike reverberated up my forearm and knocked the bone out of its socket. Pain, sharp as an executioner’s blade, radiated through the joint. I grabbed my forearm and cried out, “Yield!”
Gobi stepped forward, sword raised, teeth bared.
“I said, I yield!”
He swung at my neck, only for Captain Pristis to jump between us and knock Gobi’s sword across the room. “Cadet Bluebeard, do I need to remind you the meaning of the word ‘yield?’”
Gobi scowled. “No, sir.”
“The next time you continue attacking after your opponent has submitted, you will be facing my wrath.”
He turned his head, bottom lip protruding from his wispy beard.
Captain Pristis turned to me. “Are you injured, Cadet Bluford?”
I tried rotating my shoulder, but the pain made me wince. Not wanting to give Gobi the satisfaction of having hurt me, I said, “N-not really, sir.”
“Sit on the bench. I will call for a healer.”
“Y-yes, sir.” I walked around the edge of the room, past the other cadets engrossed in their fights. My heart felt as heavy as my throbbing arm. After sparring with Father and dueling King Magnar’s enchanted form, how could I have let someone as young as Gobi best me?
“You haven’t exactly had a chance to rest these past few days,” said Fyrian.
“Maybe,” I replied. “But I should have done better.”
“Next time, you’ll be prepared for him. It looked like he had something to prove.”
I lowered myself onto the bench and inhaled a long, deep breath. “You’re right. He’s hated me since we met.”
“You know why,” she replied. “It might be time to tell him you’re Princess Alba.”
“Ugh. Then he’d start acting like he’s my uncle.” At this point, I would rather have Gobi hate me because he thought I was the son of the woman who exiled his mother.
“He is your uncle,” she replied.
“You know what I mean. And what about all those lies he spread at the table two weeks ago about us being betrothed?”
I closed my eyes and leaned my head on the wall. If I focused on breathing, I might be able to push away the pain.
“I’ll send a bit of power your way,” said Fyrian.
“Yes, please.”
Fiery magic seeped through our bond. It drifted to my shoulder, warming it to the bone. The joint made one painful throb that made me shudder, then the ache melted away. All the muscles in my shoulder, neck, and back relaxed, and I exhaled a long breath. “That feels wonderful. How did you learn it?”
“Auntie Rilla’s Magecraft class. She warned everyone that it’s just to tide you over until you get to a healer.”
Her warmth spread down my arm and swirled around the elbow, and tears of relief gathered in my eyes. “You’re amazing. I don’t know what I ever did to deserve a partner like you.”
“You’ve always been there for me when I’ve needed you.”
A twang of guilt plucked at my heart. When we’d first bonded, I was more concerned with getting her out of my head than with proving her innocent of Mr. Jankin’s murder.
As much as I tried to hide that thought, it must have reached Fyrian, because she tutted. Maybe I couldn’t conceal things from her when we shared magic. “We didn’t know each other then, and I should have identified myself as the green dragonet.”
I nodded. My entire upper body had turned into mush. Her warmth was the perfect mix of love, pain relief, and relaxation.
A larger body sat at my side. “Bluford.”
My eyes opened a fraction. Gobi stared at me with such hatred, I jerked out of my relaxed haze and straightened. “What?”
“Why does King Magnar favor you?”
“He doesn’t.”
“Every time I greet him, he asks about you.”
My stomach soured at the thought of that man snooping about with my classmates and instructors for information about me. “Has it occurred to you that he might be aski
ng because he hates me?”
“You have caught his attention.” Gobi leaned into my space. “Why?”
“Did you not see our duel?”
Gobi’s eyes narrowed. “Where you cheated and broke his armor.”
My nostrils flared. It looked like the loyalty elixir had addled his memory of events. Anybody with half a lick of sense would know that transforming oneself into a seven-foot-tall monster just for being disarmed in a duel was bad form. There was no point in giving Gobi a refresher on King Magnar’s wrong-doings. I didn’t care enough to change his mind, and it would upset Fyrian.
“Answer my question,” he snarled.
I looked him straight in his cobalt-blue eyes. “Is that why you attacked me after I yielded?”
“N-no.” He drew back.
“Because if you’re right and King Magnar does favor me, what is he going to say when he finds out you cheated in a sparring session?”
His jaw dropped, and crimson spots appeared on his cheeks. “S-shut up!”
A healer clad in white, leather armor approached. He was a quarter-ogre, a few inches taller than me with a slender frame. From the deep, chestnut shade of his skin and the way he wore his long hair in narrow strips, braided close to the scalp, his human relatives were probably from the Boreal Desert. “Who requires assistance?”
“Me.” I glanced at Gobi, who shuffled down the bench to give the new male some space.
“I’m Healer Alabio. Can you tell me what happened?”
I swallowed. A witch would have carried out a diagnostic spell, fixed the injury, and given me an elixir. As Healer Alabio was male and could not access his magic, he probably had to conduct his business the long-winded way. I explained to him how I was struck and pointed out my dislocated shoulder.
His brows formed a concerned V. “That looks nasty. Would you permit me to place my hand on the wound?”
“All right.”
Healer Alabio closed his eyes, clapped his hands together, and rubbed his palms in slow, circular movements.
“What’s he doing?” I asked.
“Connecting to his dragon bondmate,” replied Fyrian. “All healers are partnered with either blacks, grays, or purples. Those are the types most suitable for healing others.”
“But you helped me,” I said.
“Only because we’re already bonded. And I only stopped the pain for a while.”
Before I could ask Fyrian if she would be able to heal minor injuries if we practiced, Healer Alabio placed both palms on my shoulder and infused my joint with cold power.
I sucked in a surprised breath.
“Are you all right… Cadet?”
“Bluford,” I said between clenched teeth. “The cold was unexpected.”
He chuckled. “I’d like to numb the area before moving your joint back in place.”
“You won’t be needing this, then.” Fyrian’s magic receded back through our bond.
“R-right… Thanks. W-where are you, anyway?”
“A group of us went to investigate the Dead Wood. Fulmen said he could smell something strange.”
“Wha—” My arm bone got sucked into the shoulder socket. “Aah!”
The healer drew back. “Did that hurt?”
A fast, steady drumbeat boomed in my chest, and I breathed hard, trying to wipe that peculiar sensation from memory. “N-no. It was just a bit of a shock.”
He smiled. “As soon as the alchemist from Tundra works out how to release the witches from the plague, you’ll have your usual healers back.”
“It was fine.” Despite my skin crawling from the treatment, I arranged my features into a grateful smile. “Thank you. New things take a little getting used to, that’s all.”
“I’m used to working with much larger patients, myself. It’s a refreshing change to fix a cadet’s shoulder.” Healer Alabio chuckled to himself.
It finally dawned on me why the Healer’s Academy employed so many males. Dragons were resistant to witches’ magic, but male healers could use their bondmates’ power to heal other dragons.
He pushed his knapsack off his back and pulled out two vials. “The red one will accelerate the healing of the muscle tissues around your shoulder. I’ve fixed the tiny fracture in your humerus, but you should take the white one anyway to strengthen your bones.”
I uncorked the proffered vials and swallowed the white one first. A combination of chalk and lemon filled my mouth. But the second tasted like cherries.
“Very good, Cadet Bluford.” He pulled out a piece of parchment. “You may attend your lessons, but take care. Show this note to any of your instructors if they ask you to do anything to tax your left arm.”
“Thank you, sir.”
He gave me a jaunty salute and headed for the door. Just before he opened it, a pair of warriors clad in the green leather of dragon grooms stepped into the room.
“Emergency meeting. Everybody is to make your way to the arena. Red and purple dragons are available on the lawn or reception area to take those who have not bonded.”
“What is the meaning of this?” asked Captain Pristis.
The tamer shrugged and turned to the door. “Master Fosco’s orders.”
Our instructor sighed. “You heard them. Everybody make your way to the surface. Four cadets per dragon.”
“I’ll meet you in my stall,” said Fyrian.
“All right.”
Stafford rushed to my side. “Are you going with Fyrian?”
“Yes,” I replied. “Coming with us?”
He gave me a playful bump on the right shoulder. “Of course.” His face dropped. “Sorry, did I hurt you?”
“My left got injured, and I feel fine.”
He frowned. “Are you sure? Gobi seemed a little—”
“It’s the loyalty elixir,” I muttered back. “He’s desperate to be noticed by King Magnar.”
The other cadets streamed out into the hallways, chattering about the latest turn of events. Up ahead, Rufus and Gobi waited by the door. Rufus gave the younger half-ogre a gentle shove.
Gobi cleared his throat. “Er… Bluford. It was wrong of me to have taken sparring too far. Please, will you forgive my behavior?”
I glanced at Rufus, who stared back with grim determination. Then my gaze flicked to Gobi. “Are you saying that because Rufus told you to apologize?”
He stared my shoulder. “No.”
“Or are you afraid of King Magnar’s reaction?”
He bowed his head.
I turned to Stafford, whose lips thinned. How many others loyal to King Magnar would bully me for not giving him any attention? Gobi couldn’t be the only person who noticed his fixation with me. My shoulders slumped. The only people to blame for my injury were the alchemists, and there was no way I could hold a grudge against one so young and impressionable.
“I’ll forgive, but I won’t forget.” I straightened to my full height of six feet. “If you try anything like that again, the last thing you’ll need to worry about is King Magnar’s wrath.”
He gave me a shallow bow. “Thank you.”
Stafford and I left the classroom to meet Fyrian. Hopefully, this meeting Master Fosco called had nothing to do with the machinations of King Magnar.
Chapter 8
Unlike the last time I had visited the arena, all the seats for ogres remained unoccupied save the royal box. A number of burgundy-clad dragon mages stood at its far walls like guards, and there was no sign of Master Fosco or any of the other dragon masters. On the seating tiers opposite the royal box perched what looked like the entire population of full-sized dragons in Mount Fornax. Many of them had people on their backs, and those not sitting on a dragon sat on the tiers closest to the bottom of the arena.
Fyrian settled on one of the sandstone tiers on the same row as the green dragons who shared her terrace. I spotted the one with seaweed-colored scales and waved. The other dragon flicked his head in acknowledgment.
Before I could ask Fyrian the name of
the seaweed-colored dragon, the blare of loud trumpets filled the air.
Everyone turned their gazes to the royal box. One of the dragon mages opened the door, letting in Masters Fosco, Roopal, Solum, and Klauw. The latter three sat on wooden seats beside the throne, while Master Fosco stood at the speaking podium on the right. Next to enter was King Magnar, still wearing his brown cadet’s uniform but with a cloak of the deepest royal purple velvet.
The entire arena burst into wild cheers and applause. Even the dragons roared, a sound that made my ears ring.
“Does Fyrian know what’s going on?” shouted Stafford over the noise.
“Hold on,” I shouted back.
“This looks like a Council of Dragons meeting,” she replied. “But this time, they’ve summoned all the warriors.”
I relayed the message to Stafford.
King Magnar raised a palm, and everyone in the arena exploded into louder cheers. Some of the dragons even blew fire rings. I turned to Stafford, who grimaced. Something terrible was about to happen, and the worst part was that only a handful of people in Mount Fornax could see straight enough to recognize it as a calamity.
Master Fosco placed both hands on the podium at the end of the royal box. In an unnaturally loud voice, he said, “Dragons, warriors… It is great to see you all recovered from the plague.”
More cheers and applause broke out. I bit the inside of my cheek, waiting to hear something terrible.
“While we were all suffering, one man worked tirelessly behind the scenes to save us from painful deaths. He fought valiantly against alchemists who wished to infiltrate Mount Fornax and lay us to waste.”
Silence fell across the arena, the only sounds an occasional snort from a dragon.
“That’s you,” Stafford whispered.
“All except for the man part,” said Fyrian.
I held my breath and glanced at King Magnar, who sat on the throne with his arms folded across his lap and his nose in the air. In moments, Master Fosco would summon me to the royal box. But would this be an award ceremony or an ambush wedding?
“I’ll fly you over,” said Fyrian.
I pictured a full moon, pulled some fog over our bond, and reminded myself that the loyalty elixir had addled her brain.
Dragon Mage Academy Page 7