The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I

by Irene Radford

  He clasped Brevelan’s trembling hand with his own.

  The magic vibrated in answer.

  “Hum something, Brevelan,” he suggested. Excitement filled him once more. “Something sweet and lyrical.” The exact opposite of the jarring notes that lingered in Krej’s magic.

  A soothing little tune came from her throat. The magic within him sang it back.

  “Sing with her, Darville,” he commanded with strength and new courage.

  “What!”

  “Don’t argue, just hum, the same thing she sings.” His heart beat in counterpoint. He lifted his own voice and wove a deep harmony to their higher tones. Each musical line blended and twisted around the corner. He had his curve of music around the straight line of power.

  The magic filled him, spread through all their limbs, climbed to new heights. The three of them were one being, sharing thoughts, emotions, power. One body vibrated with pulsing magic. They took off and soared together once more. He leveled his staff along the line of blue—right where the road should be, while his body looked toward the Great Bay.

  Blue. Silver. Green. Red. Purple. Copper. More blue. The colors of Coronnan braided themselves along the staff and shot forth in a line, straight and true.

  The road found its direction, wavered and shimmered, then settled along its original route.

  “I believe we have a journey to make, my friends.” Jaylor smiled as he lowered the staff and took his first step on the road to Castle Krej. He kept Brevelan’s hand tucked into the crook of his elbow. Darville’s hand rested on his shoulder. None of them was willing to break the unity they had found while flying with the dragons.

  Mica purred. The soaking rain gave way to broken shafts of sunlight.

  They are coming closer. I can feel their presence. The journeyman is more clever than I thought. He has broken one spell. There are many more traps along the way. I shall twist and twist again the magic that will delay him. He’ll never break through my defenses. No man can defeat me. I have accomplished too much.

  If only this headache would go away. The pain throbs constantly, demands my attention when I need all my concentration to maintain my spells and save the bumbling army from their own mistakes. I can’t allow the minor inconvenience of a lost battle to destroy my schedule of conquest.

  A little more Tambootie. I must have a little more to ease the pain, increase my concentration, strengthen my spells.

  Baamin stood outside the door to the king’s study, uneasy, undecided. Only it wasn’t the king’s anymore. Krej’s ambition had gone too far. The Lord Regent’s inflated conceit needed to be curtailed before he managed to destroy Coronnan and the Commune with it. But was Baamin, Senior Magician, the man to stop the king’s cousin?

  He couldn’t delay any longer. Someone had to take action and he seemed to be the only one capable of seeing what needed to be done.

  With a flourish of his staff and a flash of harmless blue powder, he stepped through the doorway, into the king’s study.

  “The border city of Sambol has fallen,” Baamin announced.

  “What!” Krej shouted, half rising from the thronelike chair behind the desk.

  “The border city of Sambol fell to a series of attacks by a well-organized army, disguised as raiders,” he repeated. “Raiders who carried purses of gold drageens from the mint in your province of Faciar.” The news wasn’t pleasant. Krej’s surprise at the news was. “How did they obtain un-circulated coins that only you could have provided, Lord Regent?”

  “Sambol can’t have fallen. I had messages from Lord Wendray last night. He assured me that his troops had beaten back the men who breached his walls.” Krej waved his hand in dismissal, totally ignoring the implied accusation that he had paid the raiders to attack Sambol. “How did you get in here, old man? I gave orders banning you from my presence.”

  “I’m a magician. I have my ways.” Baamin shrugged. He was enjoying Krej’s discomfort. Krej had spent his boyhood either in his mother’s isolated care or in the University. So he’d never learned about the existence of the myriad secret tunnels that ran through and beneath Palace Reveta Tristile. But Baamin knew them and could enter nearly any room in the palace. He’d explored them numerous times when he and Darcine were young.

  “The dragons have deserted the kingdom. There is no more magic to make you a magician,” Krej asserted. The Lord Regent settled back into his chair but continued staring at Baamin as if he were vermin.

  “Are you sure about that?” Baamin refused to move from his place just inside the door. He allowed his eyes to squint just a little. There was the faintest trace of a silver-blue web at his feet. It faded into nothing where Krej sat.

  Either Krej couldn’t find the lines, didn’t know they were a power source, or he’d been unable to move the desk and chair to a stronger location.

  “I’m very sure, Baamin.” Krej, too, was squinting now. What did he see—the lines or Baamin’s aura? Swiftly, Baamin drew in his thoughts and energies. His mission would be for naught if Krej saw either the vial of deadly powder in Baamin’s pocket or his intent to use it. If Baamin found the courage to kill Krej tonight, problems would surely follow. If he allowed Krej to live, the red-haired lord would continue to wreak havoc on them all.

  A knock on the door behind him did not disrupt the locked gazes of the two men.

  “I . . . ah . . . brung yer . . . ah . . . wine, sor.” A slurred, juvenile voice stammered shyly.

  The kitchen boy slid between Baamin and the doorjamb. He seemed shorter, younger, more ragged, and more stupid than he had just last night. His shoulders were slumped in a posture of humility and defeat. In the classroom he stood straight and proud. The master resisted the urge to examine his pupil for signs of magic disguise.

  “Put down the tray.” Krej barely registered the boy’s presence.

  Boy did as he was told with a clatter, and more than a few drops of wine splattered across the desk and Krej himself. A quick picture of Krej gasping for air, his face purple, tongue swollen, life fading, flashed into Baamin’s mind. He nearly gagged at the thought of a man dying in such a horrible manner, by his poisonous hand.

  Still, the deed needed to be done. He was resolved. The only way to save the kingdom from Krej’s manipulations was to eliminate Krej.

  “Clumsy oaf! Who had the audacity to send such a stupid, filthy, miserable idiot to serve me?” The Lord Regent pushed away the boy’s attempts to mop the spill. Each swipe of Boy’s less-than-clean cloth resulted in more wine spreading across the documents on the desk and Lord Krej.

  “Go. Now, before you do any more damage,” Krej bellowed as he cuffed the boy’s ear.

  Boy ducked quickly. Almost too quickly, as if he had seen the blow coming before it was sent.

  Baamin saw a document disappear into Boy’s filthy, oversized tunic. His only acknowledgment of the theft was to close his eyes slowly as Boy scuttled past him out the door.

  Baamin breathed deeply and recaptured Krej’s attention. “If you doubt my information, then send a messenger on your fastest steeds to intercept the wounded rider Wendray dispatched before dawn. The city has fallen. What’s left of the defending army is in well-organized retreat.” Baamin paused to allow the news to penetrate.

  He fingered the vial in his pocket. If he started murmuring the proper spell now as he stood over the line of power, the magic would be at its most potent as he slipped the powder into Krej’s wine.

  “Or perhaps messages would travel more quickly if you allow your pet rogue to summon Master Haskell who’s stationed there. He knows as much or more than your own spies,” Baamin goaded as he took two steps toward the desk and the glass of wine. The words of the death spell were firmly fixed in his mind. He need only utter them.

  “Your imagination runs wild, old man,” Krej sneered. “Leave me.” He drank deeply of the wine, pointedly offering Baamin none. “Go pester someone more gullible with your dangerous maundering.” The regent’s eyes narrowed as he once mo
re scanned the senior magician. “You belong in a monastery with the rest of the failed magicians who become false priests of the mythical Stargods. Priests are the only people willing to put up with you.” He waved a hand in dismissal.

  “Check your sources again, Lord Krej.” Baamin damped his temper and his forward movements at the slur against the official religion of the Three Kingdoms. “You might also make sure you have taken into account all that I know about you and about the king’s dragons.”

  The information to convict Krej was at hand. Baamin need only find all the bits and pieces and present them to the Council. Forfeiture, humiliation, and death were the penalty for treason. Horrible, painful death.

  “You haven’t heard the last of me, my lord.” With a smile, Baamin threw a handful of green powder that exploded into blue fire. The poison remained firmly in his pocket.

  Tricks and sleight of hand.

  But Krej’s temporary flash-blindness gave Baamin the opportunity to disappear quite dramatically.

  And left the Lord Regent alive and well, for now. Considering the death that awaited a treasonous lord, Baamin wasn’t doing Krej a favor by allowing him to live tonight.

  “Simurgh take your dragons and your magic. I am the only one who can save this country from three centuries of mismanagement. Not you, not your dragons, and certainly not some ancient legends about saving angels descending from the stars to wipe out a nonexistent plague.” Krej’s words echoed down the halls.

  “You’ll learn, Lord Krej,” Baamin muttered from his hidden alcove. “You’ll live and learn not to question legends and certainly not to tamper with the Senior Magician!” He touched the vial again. “I couldn’t bring myself to kill another man tonight. I don’t think I ever could.” Perhaps his nightmares were only the product of his overactive imagination. Now he knew deep in his soul he could never kill another man, never transform him into anything less than a man.

  The road curved west to avoid a rampaging stream. Jaylor considered the obstacle carefully. It was too wide and fast to ford. They must follow the road and hope for a bridge.

  Darville threw a rock into the frothing water. “Is there any place in the kingdom that is dry?” He looked up to the heavy clouds. The rain washed some of the travel dirt from his face and beard.

  “It’s possible this bad weather is caused by a lack of dragons.” Jaylor slumped. He was tired. They were all tired. They’d been on the road for more than a week and had traveled only a little over two leagues.

  “Do you hear voices?” Brevelan reached a hand in front of her, testing it, weighing it for emotions carried on the wind.

  “I don’t remember a village in this vicinity on my journey south.” Jaylor pointed his staff along the road, focusing on its vibrations.

  Darville took several cautious steps. “I don’t think we should be seen.” He sniffed the air. The hair on the back of his neck stiffened. He bared his teeth. “Into the bushes.” He dragged Brevelan with him, expecting Jaylor to follow.

  “That won’t be necessary.” A strange voice spoke behind them.

  As one, they whirled to face the hidden speaker. “Zolltarn!” Jaylor cried in alarm. He stepped in front of Brevelan, putting a barrier between her and the stranger.

  The Rover looked older than he had a few weeks ago. But the wings of silver slashing through his blacker-than-black-hair and the whipcord lean strength of him were the same. Though worn and threadbare, his garish red shirt, his trews and boots as black as his hair, were carefully mended and clean. Around his lean waist was wrapped a brilliant sash of purple.

  Brevelan peeked around Jaylor’s broad back for a better look at the man’s face. Jaylor felt her curiosity but sensed no fear.

  “Ah! my young magician friend.” Zolltarn narrowed his eyes as if assessing Jaylor and his companions. His wary stance belied the amiable voice.

  “I haven’t time to linger in your camp, Zolltarn.” Jaylor was equally on guard.

  “Perhaps your friend would be willing to aid us as you could not?” The Rover’s black eyes scanned Darville.

  “My friend is needed elsewhere as well.” A new hardness came into Jaylor’s voice. He clutched his staff tighter, prepared to aim a paralyzing spell at the Rover.

  “What kind of aid should I give to people exiled from Coronnan?” Darville sounded wary. As he should.

  “You don’t want to know, Roy.” There was a time when they would have laughed at the kind of aid needed by the Rovers. Since they had shared Brevelan’s bed, assisting Zolltarn in rebuilding his clan seemed betrayal.

  “But he is young and strong. My tribe could benefit greatly from his services.” Zolltarn smiled with a wicked leer. “And I am sure he would draw great pleasure from the duty.”

  “Does he mean what I think he means?” Darville asked.

  “He does.” Jaylor didn’t need to share his friend’s thoughts to know he had guessed Zolltarn’s purpose. “Not this time, Zolltarn. We must be on our way.”

  “When we reach the capital, we will find you, maybe continue this discussion.” The Rover stepped closer.

  “You go to the capital?” Brevelan sounded apprehensive.

  “We were invited by the new Lord Regent. He needs many men. We need to search for one of our own who was stolen from us.”

  “You won’t like Krej’s idea of duty, Zolltarn.” Darville finally spoke. “He needs men for an army to fight raiders and invaders on the western border. Some of those he asks you to fight might be your own kin. You won’t be allowed to search for anyone, least of all one of your own who is lost.”

  Alarm spread across the older man’s face. “Then perhaps we will find a different road to follow.” He placed one friendly hand on Jaylor’s shoulder; with the other he firmly grasped the staff. “Can we at least offer you a night’s hospitality?”

  “Zolltarn?” Brevelan dared address the man. He turned to her, releasing his grasp on Jaylor’s shoulder but not on the staff.

  “You have questions, little beauty?”

  She blushed under his admiring appraisal.

  “Why are you being so kind? Legends of your people tell us to be wary of your thieving.”

  The Rover threw back his head in laughter. The movement caused his arm to jerk at the staff. Jaylor held tight.

  “Ah, little beauty, your legends were created by old women to frighten children. We are merely passing each other in journey. Though I could use the men,” his eyebrows lifted in a knowing leer. “I have found they will serve me better if they come to me willingly.”

  “You won’t find many willing in Coronnan. We have been taught to avoid you, lest you steal our goods, our children, and our souls.” Darville tried to step between Zolltarn and Jaylor.

  Seven other Rovers jumped from concealment in the woods. Darville still pushed forward. The others grappled him. He swung his fist and connected with one jaw before being wrestled to the ground. Arms and legs flying, he brought his opponents down with him

  The blood lust of his youth swelled through Jaylor’s body. He and his gang of town boys had learned to fight in the streets and alleys of Coronnan City. They could hold their own with the dirtiest fighters in the capital.

  He flung one knotted fist upward to connect with Zolltarn’s perpetual grin. His staff blocked a kick from behind.

  A third Rover caught Jaylor with a blow to his middle. He doubled over and turned around, one booted foot kicking out behind, into the center of Zolltarn’s chest.

  Brevelan screamed behind him. His blood froze. She didn’t have the clearing to protect her. How would she fight off strong men?

  New fury impelled him into the fray. He swung his staff right and left, knocking Rovers aside. One after another they fell with bruises and breaks as he fought his way to Brevelan’s side. Only one man remained between him and his beloved. He brought the staff down on the man’s head. The bold young Rover with broken teeth and a malicious smile slumped to the ground as the twisted wood broke into three ragged pi
eces.

  “Enough!” Zolltarn cried to his men. “The magician has broken his staff, we have no need to steal it.” The Rovers melted into the woods, carrying their wounded with them.

  Chapter 29

  “My staff!” Jaylor yelled as he took off after the retreating Rovers. “You s’murghin’ bastards broke my staff!”

  Dense woods closed around him within a few steps of the path. Heavy underbrush tangled every footstep. Thick vines reached out from low hanging tree limbs and encircled his ankles. He was flat on his face in the middle of a saber fern.

  Desperately he hacked at the vine with his knife. The pithy plant oozed a corrosive sap that dulled and discolored the blade.

  “Give it up, Jaylor.” Darville limped over to his prostrate friend. “We’ll never catch them now. They melted into the shadows like so many ghosts.”

  “They broke my staff, Roy.” Jaylor resorted to the adolescent name for the prince.

  “I know, Jay. I know and I’m sorry.”

  “The staff was my only hope of reversing Krej’s spell on Shayla.”

  Disappointed silence hovered over them.

  “We’ll cut you another staff, Jaylor.” Brevelan picked her way through the overgrown ferns and downed trees to his side.

  “That won’t help much. I have to be matched to the staff. The wood grain has to be used to my brand of magic to channel it, focus it. The more I use it, the stronger becomes the partnership. We just don’t have enough time to break in a new one.”

  “Could we mend the old one?” Darville suggested.

  “The fibers would be too weak.”

  “Then we’ll have to find another way.” Brevelan reached out a hand to help him up.

  He just stared at her.

  “There is no other way.” He cradled the broken pieces of wood against his chest.