Honor's Price

by Sever Bronny

  Honor’s Price

  Fury of a Rising Dragon: Book Two

  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

  Honor’s Price / Sever Bronny.

  (Honor’s Price ; book two)

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-7751729-3-2 (softcover)

  ISBN 978-1-7751729-2-5 (ebook)

  I. Title. II. Series: Bronny, Sever, 1979- . Honor’s Price ; bk. 2.

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  Version 1.0

  Copyright ©2018 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 sever@severbronny.com or via www.severbronny.com

  To see a list of spells, class schedules and other resources for our heroic trio, visit severbronny.com

  A Quiet Snowfall

  No, Augum Stone thought while parrying a double dagger attack with his longsword, showering sparks onto him and his opponent. I will not let you strike me down.

  The Whisper Blade assassin, a man in a black cloak and tightly wrapped furs, deftly twisted his daggers and locked Augum’s summoned lightning blade between them.

  The pair matched gazes. The man had eyes the color of coffee and a face as placid as a still lake, for no emotion showed. It had been the same with the other recent assassins. No emotion, no humanity, not even a word. Truth be told, Augum preferred it that way.

  The assassin grunted as he tried to push Augum away with his blades, but he might as well have been trying to bend rock.

  I am stronger. Augum, muscles straining from the added power of a prior Strength spell casting, shoved the man back as if he were a practice dummy, then swept his crackling blade at the assassin’s legs. The man jumped over the sword while slicing scissor-like at Augum’s head with both daggers.

  I am faster. Augum leaned back and under the whizzing blades, then gracefully used the momentum of his own strike to bring his blade all the way around and swing at the man’s head. This time it was the assassin’s turn to lean back, and the lightning sword just missed eviscerating his nose.

  Augum jiggled his left wrist quickly. To an observer, the gesture would indicate uncertainty. But in this case, it came hand in hand with a spell. “Flustrato,” he snapped simultaneously, summoning the appropriate arcane energies while willing his subject to stumble into a fog of confusion.

  But the assassin’s curved blades made quick work of the invisible spell, slicing it to bits as if it were nothing more than parchment. Whisper Blades had the ability to stop arcanery that way—they could somehow see the arcane tendrils approaching and cut them down with a swipe of the hand or blade. It was ancient knowledge passed down only within the assassin guild.

  Augum, who had expected as much, twisted his left wrist while miming crushing an orange. “Dreadus terrablus.” As trained at the academy to increase the success of the Fear spell, he focused on what he thought most people found terrifying—a horde of tiny spiders nibbling on their flesh.

  The man’s eyes widened, only for him to shake his head reflexively.

  Shoot, his Mind Armor is strong, Augum thought as the assassin leapt at him in a blur of slices. Augum stepped back and summoned a black lightning shield on his left forearm. Four quick thwacks sounded as the assassin landed a fluid combo. Augum pulled his shield back as he clumsily thrust his lightning blade at the man, who again easily trapped it with his daggers.

  Enough horseplay. Augum switched tack and used a trick he had learned in Arcane Army Combat class: he simultaneously allowed his summoned sword and shield to disappear while feigning an arcane shove. The assassin fell for it and jumped aside. Augum reached out and telekinetically grabbed the man’s shoulders with invisible hands powerfully enhanced by the 8th degree Strength spell. There was the crack of shoulder bones crushing before Augum telekinetically launched the assassin into the alley wall behind him, caving the brick from the force of the throw.

  The man collapsed into the snow.

  Blood pooled around his head.

  Augum’s shadow fell over the body as the seven lightning rings around his arm extinguished. By acting quick enough and immobilizing his arms, he had prevented the assassin from cutting off the attack.

  The Grizzly’s words from Military Strategy class came floating back like the toll of a funereal bell. You must face the fact that Arcaners sometimes have to be ruthless, Stone. And that means having to take life to defend the Sacred Chivalric Code of the Arcaner. But violence is not just the way of the Arcaner … it is the way of the warlock, for to be a warlock means accepting that we tread a path that forever locks us in war.

  Stillness descended as fat snowflakes fell onto Augum’s fur-clad shoulders. He felt the raw bull power of the Strength spell fade, replaced by rapid and shallow breathing. His innards hummed from the battle like a battalion of bees ready for the next onslaught.

  The sky reflected the grayness of his mood. This was the eighth assassination attempt—and the fourth in only a tenday. Yet he didn’t want to tell Bridget Burns and Leera Jones about it as their nerves were already frayed. After he had told the girls about one of the earlier ambushes, a look of anguish remained on Leera’s face for two days. As for Bridget, who had been forlorn since breaking up with Brandon, she had already spent too much time trying to convince the authorities to take the assassination attempts seriously. Her studies had suffered, and Augum felt guilty for not managing the attacks himself. Those in charge of the investigation were useless and the trail of clues had dried up. He had his suspicions as to who was hiring the assassins, but with no proof, there was nothing he could do.

  He and the girls had researched Whisper Blades—not that there was much information out there on them. They nonetheless learned that the assassins’ guild compound stood near the center of the Canterran capital of Iron Feather. It sat there blatantly, arrogantly, knowing it had the full protection of Canterran nobility. A beacon of corruption. The assassins often used darts, but they also loved a traditional face-to-face trial by combat.

  As did he.

  Now it had become a game. A deadly game, but a game nonetheless. He had gotten so used to the thrill of combat that he sought it out. The mock duels at the academy were not enough. His blood needed to race. He needed to feel alive—a warlock perpetually locked in war.

  There was a sense of morbid peace in victory. The soft patter of snow as it gradually buried the fallen. The steady slowing of the heart as it calmed itself. The simple act of breathing. The realization that he had survived.

  He would float through the day like a taut bowstring, eyes and ears alert in anticipation of another attack. He took walks through the city, hood raised, waiting, listening, watching. Sometimes an Ordinary would daringly hiss a derogatory comment about warlocks. A stern look would oft suffice in sending them scuttling back into the shadows. Only once had he flashed a lit palm to scare off a malicious young man. But superstitious Ordinaries thinking warlocks were demons incarnate weren’t the problem. Luckily, the assassins hadn’t gone after anyone else … yet. And that’s how he justified his silence. Let the bastards keep breaking themselves against the rock he was becoming. Let them be the strop against which he sharpened his blade.

  The game honed his battle instincts. And it dovetailed perfectly with the Sacred Chivalric Code of the Arcaner.
Thou shall never turn thy back on a foe. He was never to refuse a fair challenge. Whisper Blades were the traditional enemies of Arcaners. He could not deny history its traditions. His research into both orders showed that particular tradition came from natural antithesis. Arcaners, being warlock-knights, served a higher purpose, whereas Whisper Blades served only money. Mercenaries through and through, they despised authority and were only loyal to each other. Their motto was Saenius praetius kavoss. Speed, stealth, cunning.

  If they wanted to keep trying to kill him, he would keep repelling them and hone his skill while doing it, for that skill could save the only things that mattered to him—Bridget and Leera and everyone he cared about.

  The pool of blood spread toward his shoes. He stepped back, seeing his face reflected in it.

  He looked at the limp body. As with the others, the constables would find it in due time and wonder who was responsible. He would like to report the attempts on his life as well as the location of the bodies, but it would only put his name in the heralds, making life that much more difficult. Many already blamed the kingdom’s troubles on him for not taking the throne, or for not backing one of the corrupt noble families. Others had expected him and the girls to defend the kingdom from invasion. Others still worshipped the ground the trio walked on, deeming them saviors and heroes and royalty and worthy of countless other titles.

  He wished he had something to say to the felled assassin. Something meaningful, something that would leave peace between them. But nothing appropriate came to mind.

  He walked out of the alley. An enemy army awaited.

  In Lockstep

  Augum watched the lines of Canterran troops march past, their steel boots plowing through knee-high snow as they paraded across Blackhaven. Accompanying them, like dogs at their master’s side, was Solia’s own wretched army. Canterra—a hostile foreign kingdom—had conquered Solia without spilling a drop of blood. The invasion had been uncontested. King Rupert Southguard hadn’t even called upon his vassals to defend the kingdom knowing it would have been a bloodbath. Augum, as Castellan and Lord of Castle Arinthian, was among those few vassals, each a protector of a town or city, each subservient to the crown.

  “Their armor is so shiny,” an emerald-robed Jengo Okeke said in awed tones. “And they’re so … big.”

  “The bulk is from the fur padding,” Augum replied. In his mind’s eye, he was watching a pool of blood slowly spread across virgin snow.

  “Only fur padding?”

  “And training. And solid provisions.”

  Jengo studied him. “You all right? You’re breathing like you just ran up a flight of stairs.”

  “Peachy.”

  Jengo watched him a moment longer before returning his gaze to the invading troops marching in lockstep. “Padded fur … huh. Still, look at ours. Scrawny beanpoles in comparison.”

  Augum surrendered a nod. The pool of blood had threatened to touch his boot and he remembered stepping back.

  “You can still see the effects of the famine on the faces of our soldiers,” Jengo went on, shaking his head. “Makes me feel privileged to be eating one square meal a day at the academy and another back at home. Those greedy nobles should be hanged for keeping money recovered from the war for themselves.”

  Instead of responding with a quip as he usually would, Augum continued watching the procession with a tight chest as he retreated into a cave of his thoughts. This was what remained of his kingdom, what it had been reduced to—servants ushering in their new masters. While the Canterran troops were outfitted with padded fur coats, the Solian troops were clad in rags of linen and wool, with the occasional scraggly beaver or wolf pelt across a shoulder, perhaps provided by a loved one or bought cheaply at the markets. But it didn’t stop there. Canterran knights rode muscled war horses and wore shiny armor, whereas Solian knights rode malnourished nags and donkeys and wore faded leathers, rusty chainmail or dented plate. And while Canterran warlock commanders headed every column with rigid jaws and hard eyes, Solian warlocks were entirely absent, for the vast majority had perished in the Legion War, gone into hiding, or who knew what. The warlocks who remained were either students and arcanists at the academy, or lower-degree warlocks scattered throughout the kingdom working menial jobs.

  “ ‘Becometh violence hath I, destroyer of worlds,’ ” Augum whispered under his breath, regurgitating ancient prose. The thick pool of blood had looked black in contrast to the snow. Black as night. Black as death.

  Jengo hadn’t heard him and Augum wandered further down the cave of his thoughts.

  “This is all your father’s fault,” Jengo said in bitter tones. “I mean, your former father’s.”

  Augum distractedly nodded once more. He was the son of a man who had drained Solia of its most precious resource—people. During the Legion War, Lividius Stone, Lord of the Legion, had murdered tens of thousands in his quest for immortality and dominance. Augum had refuted his father in the old way by renouncing familial ties in public. And then he had vanquished the necromancer with the aid of Bridget and Leera, thus ending the war.

  But that was all in the past. It was the future that now worried him—specifically the fate of his friends, his ancestral castle, and the beloved Academy of Arcane Arts. He felt deeply responsible for the kingdom too, for by deposing its tyrant and then failing to replace said tyrant with a proper alternative, he had made the kingdom vulnerable to invasion.

  The high council had offered him the throne, only to sit slack-jawed when he declined. And later, when the high council had asked him to back a noble family for the vacant throne, he again refused. His self-absorption resulted in the nefarious Southguards taking the crown. But the delay had taken its toll, for the Canterran army had been amassing at the border while the new king was being crowned. And as it turned out, the Southguards were great at mercantilism, but not so great at defending the kingdom from invasion. And now the Canterrans, with their snooty, porcelain-cup accents, had conquered Solia. All because Augum had refused to take responsibility for his place in the kingdom. All because he had thought of himself first. Guilt hammered at his soul like a smith pounding an old anvil.

  “I suppose we’re lucky they’re not burning the city to the ground.”

  Augum said nothing.

  Jengo turned to stare at him. “Does nothing faze you anymore? You’re like a statue. You sure you’re all right?”

  Augum barely heard him. He had taken another man’s life. But if he had taken it, then would he not be carrying it with him? No, he hadn’t taken it—he had snuffed it out like a candle. The light was simply … gone. Snow was burying the body as they stood there. Perhaps passersby had already found it and called the constables.

  Jengo pressed his lips together and returned to watching the crowd. Around them, people gathered to gawk at the passing army, but none recognized Augum as his hood was tightly drawn, his amber robe obscured by a thick wolf-hide coat. He was too well known to risk being seen in public. Ordinaries already distrusted warlocks, but now Path Disciples actively searched for them in a crowd. They also searched for faces they did not like. Jengo, who was deeply dark-skinned and a warlock to boot, was particularly at risk. The Path, a so-called religion that was nothing more than a virulent cult, ruled Canterran minds with wild-eyed oppressive fervor. The Path supposedly worshipped the Unnameables in the highest form. Solia’s quiet, humble way of worshipping the gods was to be annihilated and replaced by a loud, garish idolatry that subjugated waywards and foreigners and heretics and apostates and women and warlocks and undesirables—and desire itself. And although these ideas had breached Solia’s border well before Canterra had, now troops and warlocks with real power would enforce them.

  Augum watched as a white-robed Path Disciple with a shaved pate smacked the arms of a couple who had been holding hands. Then he indicated his own eyes and pointed down, snapping at the woman to keep her gaze low in a Canterran country twang.

  “You see that?” Jengo asked.


  Augum nodded. Little escaped his notice nowadays. Trained in Military Strategy and Arcane Army Combat Class to watch for threats, he was alert to the goings-on around him. What weapons the soldiers carried and how many notches were on their blades. Who wore a hood in the crowd and who refused to make eye contact. Who slunk in the shadows and who stood suspiciously near. These and more he was on the lookout for, watching, listening, waiting. Locked in war.

  “We’re nails looking at a hammer,” Augum said, as another Path Disciple interrogated a young man their age about any witches he knew—meaning warlocks.

  “They’ll destroy this kingdom,” Jengo muttered.

  “Only if we let them.”

  Jengo snorted derisively. “The kingdom needs to get its act together and stop hoping for the Fates to keep it from harm. Stop hoping you three will save it just because you saved it before.”

  We agree there, Augum thought. The current trouble had begun with Canterra demanding ever-increasing reparative payments, leading to sword-rattling at the southern border. When King Rupert led his personal army south, he had been met with such an overwhelming force it was said the sight made him pale. An artist for the Blackhaven Herald had boldly drawn a comic depicting King Rupert curtseying to the Canterrans as they passed. Within hours the king had the artist’s head mounted on a spike for all to see. The next day articles in the heralds called the king’s capitulation to the Canterrans “a shrewd act of self-preservation.” One herald called the capitulation a “historical repatriation,” citing a distant point in time when the two kingdoms had briefly been united. Still another called it “a necessary evil to right the wrongs of the past.” Disinformation. Proselytism. Cowardice. Blatant, bald-faced lies. Lies so large people believed them out of incredulity. He’d seen it all before in the Legion War. None of it bode well for a kingdom that still burned with the fires of superstition.

  “All that work to free the kingdom from one tyrant,” Augum muttered, fists curling around the strap of his worn academy satchel, “only to see it fall to another.”