The Fate's Chosen

CH 1 - Goading the Goat

The rancid smell of sweaty boys almost made me throw-up. No breeze filtered through the open windows to attempt to make the agonizing heat bearable. Alon, the sun named after the high fate pressed down hard on the classroom so I could see the summer-haze rising up from every surface. The droning voice of Professor Gout buzzed about in my brain, giving me a headache, and I contemplated taking off my boot and chucking it at his fat face, which was nothing I hadn't done before.

Ethics of nobility, his favorite topic. He went on about how the mannerisms of a nobleman showed much about his character, and his status could be derailed for any impudence shown to another gentleman or lady of the court. Blah, blah, blah.

I hunched in my seat with my feet propped up on the desk. My head hung over the back of the chair as I gave a blatant moan.

Goat, as I preferred to call him, finally stopped his bleating. He had stuck me at the table furthest from the front, isolating me from the others, who sat in one gigantic mass, right next to the teacher.

The professor traditionally did his best to ignore me, but I knew how to apply the right pressure. He turned his overlarge, square head and his beady eyes in my direction, with his bushy gray mustache, quivering.

"Mr. Chronus," he was obviously doing his best not to shout, "would you kindly take your filthy boots off of my desk?"

I couldn't help but laugh at that. "Kindly? What is this strange word you refer to, Sir?" I grinned at the blotchy teacher through my clapping feet. Now, we can finally get started.

Goat's nostrils flared, making him look more like a pig than usual. With some serious self-control, the professor took a deep shaky breath and turned away from me and back at his textbook. "Can anyone give me the definition and an example of what the book refers to as a 'despondent bespawler'?"

Henry Cuthbert, Goat's favorite, number one in the class, and very near the top of my list of people I dreamed of throwing in a lake, raised his hand.

"Mr. Cuthbert," Goat nodded at him.

The boy with dark, curly blond hair and squinched nose, rose from his seat at the front and spoke in that 'grate on your eardrums' nasally voice of his. "A despondent bespawler is a man born into nobility, who does not live by our moral code. No matter how much the man is taught or beat, he remains nothing but a hopeless dog." I could hear the smirk on his face. "I could give a basic example, Professor Gout, but here in Emrin we all know of a rather specific example that goes by the name of Salem Chronus." Henry turned his head enough to give me a glimpse at that leer, his tiny eyes glittering at me.

The side of my mouth quirked up and I gave him a wink, making his ugly smile slip and mine grow as the clod took his seat. Oh, yes. Today was going to be a good day.

Goat nodded. "Very good, Mr. Cuthbert. Your definition is nearly textbook. However your example, while not precisely incorrect, does not completely fit. To be a despondent bespawler means one that is born into nobility having fallen. The example you gave is not a true born nobleman to begin with."

"And thank the fates for that!" I hollered.

"I shall send you to the yard!" Goat whirled on me again. And there it was. "Mr. Knowles shall have you whipped good this time, boy!"

I laughed. "Please do, Goat."

Goat's square tomato head looked like Jell-O as his fat folds jiggled. "Mr. Knowles will—"

"Be far too easy to give the slip." I grinned. "That man might even be an even bigger idiot than you. He's probably a better example of that bespawler thing. He's more of a dog. Your dog that's stupid enough to take orders from an animal such as yourself. A man that's only good for beating on the children that don't give you enough pastries to assist you in gaining another ten pounds."