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

by Sever Bronny

  As fate would have it, Augum was the last vassal to stand before the king and queen.

  “The court now calls Prince Augum Arinthian Stone, Lord of Castle Arinthian and Hero of the Resistance, to swear eternal allegiance to His Highness King Rupert Edron Scovinius Southguard, the First of His Name, Defender of the Realm.”

  A single long note of the horns blared through the hall. Augum fought waves of panic as he marched up the steps, acutely conscious of his bedraggled state in the eyes of so many, of his inability to live up to their ideal of what a hero should be, of his name besmirched in the heralds, of that morning’s humiliating whipping, of the prospect of losing everything to the Southguards … all because he did not want to play their stupid games.

  He desperately wanted to get this over with.

  “Kneel, Great Vassal,” the harker said to the hall, and Augum kneeled, removing Burden’s Edge from its sheath. He could see out of the corner of his eye that the king’s royal guard had tensed, as if expecting Augum to impale the king. But then, he did technically kill the last king …

  “Swear, Great Vassal.”

  There was one advantage to going last: the oath had been burned into his brain. Sure, he had practiced it, but hearing it again and again had helped.

  Augum placed Burden’s Edge before him on the high pile of crimson carpet. “I so do swear, under the eternal eyes of the Unnameables and all souls present, that I, Augum Arinthian Stone, Lord of Castle Arinthian, so do place my body, mind and lands upon the call of your horn, and so shall live and die with you against any man or creature known and unknown, may the Unnameables help me so.”

  Yet he could not stop a certain set of other words from breaking into his mind like a burglar in the night. Thou shall root out corruption in all its forms, and the sanctity of the truth shall vanquish any title …

  The words echoed on as the harker spoke. “And now, Great Vassal, the king asks for the traditional blessing.”

  Augum calmed himself with a single breath and readied the words that would tell everyone he agreed to bring the king the best bounties of Castle Arinthian’s land by next harvest.

  “The king asks you to pronounce here and now, before all those assembled—”

  Oh gods, no. No, no, no. Those weren’t the words he had been expecting!

  “—to give blessing to the marriage between the king’s loyal son and heir, Eric Davinius Chestin Southguard—”

  Augum wanted to retch then and there.

  “—and Princess Bridget Burns, Hero of the Resistance, so they may marry and live as husband and wife until their dying day.”

  Gasps came from the hall. Whispers abounded and bodies stirred in their seats.

  “Silence!” roared the harker, and the crowd instantly quieted.

  But Augum could barely hear beyond the roar of blood rushing through his ears.

  The Southguards had trapped him.

  They had trapped him, and they had therefore condemned him …

  For he knew what he had to say.

  Against All Odds

  Augum drifted away from the platform amidst a sea of open-mouthed faces and tumultuous uproar. He had given his answer in firm, unwavering tones. Then, without kissing the ring, he had replaced Burden’s Edge into its sheath and turned his back on the king. And by doing so, he had turned his back on everything he had fought for.

  It was only by the grace of Jez that he made it back to his seat beside Leera without collapsing from panic, for she had placed a supportive hand on his shoulder to guide him, whispering she was proud of him. But those words had drowned beneath the ones he had said to the king.

  “With all due respect to the office of the sovereign, I cannot grant this wish …”

  The crowd’s gasps had been icy daggers through his soul.

  Augum’s fingers entwined with Leera’s as he sat down between her and Jez. Her hand was cold. Or was it his own hand that was freezing and clammy? She was whispering something soothing, even gently stroking his cheek, but all he could hear were his own words.

  “I shall nonetheless serve the king as an honorable vassal …”

  His words had been cold steel, so cold they could have been mistaken for words uttered by a Southguard. He recalled seeing Rupert’s eyes twinkle after he had sprung his trap, and he appeared to take great pleasure in seeing Augum metaphorically tear himself limb from limb in public.

  “… and bring my banner to bear should the horn call me to arms … as an Arcaner.”

  The man had not offered his ring, and Augum had not sought it out. Instead, he had stood before the king, chin held high, and turned his back on him. The king had then done something unheard of in many a day. He had stood from his throne, amplified his voice, and in a bold tone worthy of the most dramatic theatrical play, declared, “Behold! A Black Slight has been made against me!”

  And that had been it. He had then sat down.

  It took some time for the harkers to quiet the hall, only to declare the ceremony over with a series of horn blasts and a final announcement that the great banquet would soon begin. But Augum barely heard, for he had a hard time hearing anything beyond the blood rushing through his ears, beyond the pounding of his drumming heart, beyond the words bouncing around in his brain, each syllable pulling the rug out from under everything he wanted to accomplish in life. All he could feel now were the judging, malevolent eyes. All he could sense was the coming disappointment of every soul who worked in and around his castle, each condemned by bad luck, each certain that calamity awaited them. And all he could smell and taste … was the iron tang of blood.

  It took him a moment to realize he had bitten his tongue. It must have happened when he had stepped off the platform so forcefully. He vaguely recalled holding his tongue between his teeth, demanding of himself the strength of character and will to not utter one more damning word. Yet part of him wanted to publicly condemn the entire family for their deceitful games …

  “What’s going to happen now?” he blurted, vaguely aware of people leaving the hall. Others had been speaking to him, but he couldn’t concentrate on what they had been saying. “And what’s a Black Slight?”

  “Sorry, what?” he asked when Leera said something. “Say it again.” He still couldn’t hear past the blood raging through his head.

  “… banquet … serve the king … The Path … later … memorial ceremony … cannot grant … wish …” Her words were jumbled with what he had said to the king. To the king!

  “… must repent in the Forgiving Ceremony …” Bridget added.

  “No, I mean, what’s going to happen now?” he repeated, glancing between the girls and Jez. “What’s going to happen now—?”

  What he meant seemed to dawn on their faces for their expressions softened. But they did not answer him, and he could not tell whether it was because none of them knew or because they did not want to tell him the truth. Behind their eyes, however, he saw a mirror of his fears … the castle. The Southguards wanted the castle. The cursed Southguards wanted the castle—!

  And what about the kingdom? Was it falling into Canterran hands through a back door? Would The Path enslave women, destroy the academy and hang warlocks by their necks until they are dead?

  Gods, he had to get a grip. He rubbed his eyes and jerked his head, trying to shake off the nauseating disorientation, the culmination of two days of complete upheaval.

  He longed to cast Centarro. It would allow him to focus and maybe come up with a creative solution to his problem—or at least show him a way to get through the day. Then again, in his current state, he might end up focusing on his failures and spiral into some kind of psychotic doom. And then there were the foggy side effects he’d have to deal with …

  No, he had to think clearly the old-fashioned way. There were no shortcuts here.

  “Let’s, uh, make, uh, make our way to the, uh, the banquet, then,” he blubbered at last, conscious of too many eyes on him, too many imperious glances thrown his way, t
oo many whispers about bad luck and breaking sacred protocol and the Black Slight. He felt a cheek-burning and chest-tightening humiliation, as if he had been defeated in a tournament duel without getting a chance to cast a single spell. It was the same sensation he had felt at his manhood ceremony when he had tried to show off that he could teleport. It was the same echoed laughter, the same public horror. But it was far heavier and pressing, for he could lose the castle to the Southguards.

  He glanced down and saw Leera gripping his hand between both of hers. Her doting, loving gaze never left his face. She stood proud and loyal beside him, even though he may have flung them all into the fires of damnation.

  “Sorry, what’s a Black Slight again?” he asked once more. Someone had already answered the question, but it had gone in one roaring ear and out the other.

  “It’s a grievous injury to the king’s honor,” Jez replied, brow deeply furrowed. And when her brow was that furrowed, it meant he was in serious trouble. They all were.

  “It has to be redeemed through custom,” she added.

  Bridget squeezed his shoulder. “I’m proud of you, my dear brother.” Then she drew him into a hug, whispering, “Thank you.”

  “I think I may have lost us the castle,” he mumbled, one hand on her back and squeezing her, the other still held by Leera. He was sorry for what she was going through with Eric and Brandon.

  Bridget drew back and placed both hands on his shoulders. “If they take the castle, then they take the castle as conniving thieves.”

  Augum squared his jaw. Not if he could help it. He summoned his courage and fought to think clearly. Sure, the Southguards had delivered a gut-punch, but it had not been a fatal blow.

  He glanced over and saw Mr. Haroun talking in a frantic low voice with Mr. Okeke and Mr. Goss. “I have an idea,” he said. “But we’ll need everyone involved …”

  The group was soon huddled together amidst a sea of nobility, lost ships in a maelstrom.

  “Steward Haroun,” Augum began, his bearing returned to him by the loving support of the girls. “I need you to look into the archives and find any means for me to fight for the castle’s honor when trying to redeem a Black Slight.”

  Mr. Haroun nervously stroked his beard. “There might be old precedents that could be brought to bear. All we’ll need to find is a single instance when the honor of a house was successfully reclaimed after committing a Black Slight. But you will have to amend the slight in a traditional manner. Otherwise, there could be grave implications for Castle Arinthian … and its people. And it will have to be done as soon as possible, preferably during the Forgiving Ceremony.”

  Augum recalled from his studies on royalty that the Forgiving Ceremony occurred near the end of the banquet feast. The king would pardon those who had done him wrong prior to his ascension to the throne, thus turning a new page with those who served him in court. It was a crucial affair that just might provide Augum a chance to redeem himself. He had been contemplating saying something to alleviate the grievance of refusing to back the Southguards for the throne, but his pride had not allowed him to formulate anything cohesive. Things had changed now, however. He had cast himself as a villain in the eyes of the nobles. Maybe he should go up there and grovel for forgiveness …

  No, not a chance in hell. They were playing a devious game, wanting just that, and then they would snatch the castle from him anyway when he was at his weakest. And who knew what else they would take—Bridget, perhaps. Such a dreadful thing was not unheard of. No, he might be naive, but he wasn’t a complete fool.

  “There’s a library in this castle,” Jez said. “It has the most current law archives available. I know the curator from the war days. I think I can get us in.”

  Mr. Haroun gave a sharp nod. “Excellent. Then let us depart in haste.”

  “Mr. Goss and I can help search for the appropriate book,” Mr. Okeke offered.

  “That would be most welcome.”

  “We’re very proud of you, Augum,” Mr. Goss said, giving Augum’s shoulder a fatherly squeeze. “All of us.”

  “Yes, it is not right what they did to you and Bridget up there,” Mr. Okeke threw in.

  “As an old hand in this game,” Mr. Haroun added, “I can tell you they have made a mistake. They underestimate us … all of us.”

  “Adversi alua probata,” Bridget said, holding out her hand.

  “Adversi alua probata,” Leera replied, slapping hers on top.

  One by one, they placed their hands on top of one another’s and repeated the phrase. Augum recalled how he and the girls had done this very same thing when they first met, but they had done it over a book and sworn to each other that, despite all, they would become warlocks in honor of their loved ones who had died in the war.

  He was the last one to place his hand on top, and looked each of them in the eye, grateful for their friendship and support, before saying, “Against all odds.”

  The Royal Banquet

  The banquet was held in the Royal Supper Hall, once known as the Great Arcaner Hall, the same hall Rupert had deviously dangled before Augum as a reward should he betray Bridget. The tables and trestle benches had been arranged in a great rectangle that edged the perimeter of the walls, with an exit at the far end. They were draped in the finest Tiberran Dramask cloth and laden with sparkling Canterran cut crystal, fine Solian silverware, and imported Abrandian bone china freshly marked with the Southguard royal crest: a fox over a quill crossing a dagger over a stack of coins, for the family came from a long tradition of prosperity through mercantile trade. They were not known as warmongers, but rather for their guile and cleverness.

  The king and queen sat at the head of the tables on a raised platform. Flanking them were the high council and select members of the immediate royal family, including Eric and Katrina. Seated along the walls from most important to least were peers of the kingdom: the noblest of the nobles and lords of office, all in their finest and most colorful regalia. Scarlet-clad pages of honor and liveried servants gracefully moved amongst the tables. Thousands of wax candles, clustered in groups on ornate wrought iron floor candelabras, cast a warm glow over the entire hall. The scent of rosemary, bread and hearth fire mingled with the sweetness of vanilla and cinnamon and exotic perfumes.

  Augum sat with Bridget and Leera somewhat close to the king’s table. Their friends from the academy, however, were stuck in a separate dining area for “those of lesser station,” as Leera had sarcastically remarked. The trio would have joined them were it not for Jez hissing, “Don’t you dare give them reason to take any more offense!”

  Jez had hurried off with Mr. Haroun, Mr. Goss and Mr. Okeke to the castle library in search of a single precedent that would successfully combat the Black Slight, though not before explicitly telling Augum, “Please, for the love of the sacred gods, don’t you make another peep of trouble, Stone.”

  Entertainment was in the form of a trio of Tiberran juggling sisters draped in peacock feathers. They performed in the center of the room, swirling in time to merry music played by a trio of Tiberran flutist brothers. Augum, who had more serious things to concern himself with, wondered—fully knowing how ridiculous the thought was—if the three sisters were married to the three brothers.

  Servants brought out washbasins and hot cloths. As a servant girl placed a washbasin in front of her, Leera scowled and nodded to the high table. “Ugh, look.”

  Augum glanced up to see Brandon forcefully laughing with Katrina. Beside her, Eric sat stone-faced. Now that Augum felt more enlightened about their deviousness, he suspected the Southguards had dangled Katrina as the carrot they would offer Brandon, yet they certainly did not intend on fulfilling such a thing. More likely, they would dispose of Brandon the moment he ceased being useful.

  Augum glanced over to Bridget on his right. She was practically grinding her hands together in the washbasin.

  “I’m sorry about Brandon,” he said.

  A female servant silently offered to dry B
ridget’s hands for her but instead had the cloth yanked from her fingers. Bridget then scrubbed her hands as if they were layered in filth, even though they looked clean to Augum.

  Augum leaned closer. “Want me to go punch him in the face for you?”

  But that did not elicit even a smile. “They’d hang you,” she spat.

  “Then we’d all run away together and go on a grand adventure again—”

  “We’re not fourteen anymore, Augum.” She dumped the cloth into the basin and shoved it back at the servant, accidentally splashing water on her yellow dress.

  The girl paled. “I am so very sorry for my dreadful clumsiness, Your Highness. Please allow me to—”

  “Don’t bother,” Bridget snapped.

  The girl curtsied. “Yes, Your Highness. My deepest apologies. It will not happen again.”

  Bridget reached out to apologize to her but the servant was already gone. Bridget slammed a fist onto her knee and gnashed her teeth. Then she lowered her head, tracing a finger around the water stains on her dress.

  “I’m sorry. That … that was a cruel thing to say to you,” she said. “I guess I just don’t feel like myself …”

  “Don’t give it a second thought. You’re right. We’ve got responsibilities now. The castle. The people in the village. Our studies. We can’t just … run off like fools.” There’d be nowhere to go anyway. Castle Arinthian was their home. He simply had to suck it up and fight for it. Fight for them.

  She silently continued to trace the water stains.

  “Brandon’s always been a bit … suggestible,” Augum offered, realizing how utterly lame that sounded. “And now that we know the Southguards want the castle, we also know they’ve been playing a game the whole time. It might not really be the same Brandon; he might have been put under—”

  “—a spell?” She glared at him. “A spell, Augum? Is that what you were going to say? Really, Augum Stone?”