The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I

by Irene Radford

  (Who do you seek and why?) The dragons spoke to him en masse.

  “Mikka is the other half of my heart.”

  (Look to your left, the side of your heart.)

  Darville turned his entire body to his left, toward his sword arm, and saw only more of the thick gold umbilical that was his own.

  (She is your heart, not your strength. Look to your heart.)

  He turned his body back to its original position. Then he twisted only his neck to look toward his left side. Something glimmered and beckoned, just beyond his sight.

  (You will not find her outside of yourself.)

  Why didn’t they say so in the first place! He sought his beloved where he always knew she would be. From the time of his first dragon-dream in Shayla’s cave he had known that Mikka was an essential part of him. During the moons that Mica had been his constant companion, he’d always been aware of where she was, even without seeing her. Since his first night in Mikka’s bed, he had not been separated from her by more than a heartbeat.

  Deep inside his soul, iridescent light surged upward. He grasped a hold on the essence of Mikka. An old blue-tipped dragon named Seannin flew beneath him. Darville caught the spine ridges of the leader of the nimbus in his free hand and flung himself astride. Together, they followed the glowing umbilical.

  The void thinned ahead of them. Stars showed above, the foam of surf in the Great Bay splashed below them. Craggy hills rose straight up from the depths of the bay. Cliffs broke and crumbled into sharp pinnacles as the mountains marched into the sea. Carved into the northwest face of one of those peaks was a castle. The mountain above it was so steep and high, no one could drop into the grounds from above, not even from dragonback. There was only one pathway leading up to the closed gates from the village, at the base of the cliff. A daring climber might try to scale the sharp rocks to the castle walls. But the walls themselves were embedded with shards of knife-sharp volcanic material.

  Castle Krej. Impregnable. The last stronghold of the rebels during the Great War of Disruption. Conquered only by the unified might of the Commune. A symbol of the civil wars that should never come again.

  “We can bring Mikka out, or we can drop all of us in.” Jaylor’s voice cut into Darville’s thoughts. “We don’t have the strength for both.”

  When Darville looked around, he realized that all twelve of the master magicians were behind him, each on a different dragon.

  “If we rescue the queen, we can then settle our score with Krej at our leisure,” Slippy said.

  “With Krej, there will be no leisure. We must end this battle here and now. Send me down to him.” Darville closed his eyes and prayed that he had made the right decision. His actions might cost him his life, or worse, the life of Mikka. But if he died, he would take Krej with him. The kingdom would be safe.

  For a while.

  “Are you sure, Darville? We can get Mikka out safely,” Jaylor argued.

  “I’ve got to remove Krej from his seat of power. We’ll never break his defenses with an army.”

  “The boy is right,” Zolltarn agreed. “If we do not penetrate his base of power now, we will never again have peace from him and his ilk.”

  “Take us down, Seannin,” Darville commanded his mount. “And give my regards to Shayla.”

  Mikka lifted her head and sniffed. Something was wrong, very wrong indeed.

  There were a lot of things wrong in Krej’s castle—that hideous altar among them. But this was something else. She sniffed again, with Rosie’s help, for the difference in the air. Her latest hiding place, in the tiny cupboard underneath the back staircase, between the Great Hall and the dining hall, was too close to the kitchen. The scents of Krej’s next meal overshadowed the smell of the individuals who passed by.

  So far, she had seen only two servants in the entire castle: a man and a woman, old, nearly blind, and oblivious to all but their assigned tasks. The soldiers who lined the outer walls and marched in squads around the courtyard never entered the main building of the castle.

  Carefully, Mikka edged toward the paneling that closed off her hiding place. She listened and tested the air for something different.

  Roasting meat. Baking bread. Boiling tubers. Someone whipping cream for the sweet. Sliced cheese and apples for the savory. But no human scent near here.

  She sent a tiny sliver of magic into the Great Hall with the tormented creatures trapped inside the sculptures. Janataea had been there twice in the last hour. Her boisterous prayers to Simurgh were not concealed. The servants avoided her and the hall. The room was empty now.

  As were the dining hall and the offices behind it.

  Did she dare risk a probe upward to the towers and bedchambers? Janataea would sense the magic and follow it back to Mikka. Better to slip up there, without magic, and hide somewhere new, somewhere Janataea had already looked.

  She took the chance that the guards on the battlements would be drowsy. Perhaps they didn’t know that she didn’t belong there. She flitted past her tower prison, upward to the door and covered parapet.

  Starlight and a faint sliver of a new moon outlined the shadows below her. Campfires in the distance. An army was camped out there. Darville’s troops waiting to attack, or Krej’s advance guard? No cloud marred her view of the heavens. Crisp salt air warned of a frost. All was quiet. Too quiet.

  An air of expectancy hovered around the castle, as if the very stones of the castle watched and waited.

  Darville wouldn’t wait much longer. He must attack soon. A siege was useless against a castle with three internal wells and a year’s worth of food in storage.

  Mikka searched the walls again with her cat senses. There must be a way she could help her husband and his troops invade this bastion!

  Then she caught a new scent on the wind. Sweeter, spicier than the salt air of the Bay. Colder than the winds on the desert plateau in winter.

  She looked up. Starlight winked at her, then blanked out. Huge gaps occurred in the vault of the heavens. Blank places in the shape of giant wings. The black outline seemed the model for the stained glass window of Simurgh in the Great Hall.

  Chapter 32

  Darville slid down the blue-tipped dragon wing. Down, down, deeper down through the void, until his feet touched solid stone. The chill of the void burned through to his bones. He shuddered as sensation returned to his limbs. The aching dizziness passed more quickly than he expected.

  Then he opened his eyes. He was alone in the Great Hall of Castle Krej. Alone, and yet. . . . The inanimate sculptures seethed with leashed emotions. Air gushed out of his lungs, weakening his resolve. All of these beautiful wild creatures had been released by Shayla last spring. Now they were imprisoned again, as if they had never been set free at all.

  Were his own actions just as fruitless?

  He couldn’t allow himself to think in those self-defeating lines. For Mikka, for himself, for Coronnan and the dragons, he had to put an end to Krej and his evil schemes—today.

  Something powerful disturbed the sculptures. Something powerful indeed, if Darville, a mundane, could sense their disquiet.

  The dragons, perhaps? Or more of Krej’s evil spells?

  Cautiously, he unsheathed his sword. The rattle of metal against the scabbard set his teeth on edge. With barely a whisper of further sound he slipped behind the infamous spotted saber cat. No guard responded to the sound.

  Darville stretched every sense to his mundane limits, stretched them further than he thought possible. He couldn’t hear or smell any live person near this room. In imitation of Mica, he extended his tongue and tasted the air. All kinds of flavors lingered, but none of them human. He shifted his posture to an attack preparation and settled his mind to think.

  If he were Krej and planning the upcoming battle, the guards would be on the walls, watching for an invasion force. Defenses inside the castle would be magical and geared to the known talents of the Commune.

  What should he look for? Something he, a m
undane, couldn’t perceive.

  Perhaps that was his advantage. Krej was expecting the magicians to transport in—especially Jaylor, not Darville himself. The traps would be set for magicians. Mundane servants and family members would have to move about the castle unhindered.

  Dawn sent bright slivers of light through the massive window in the southeastern wall. The central hearth had burned down to embers. How long had they been in the void? One day, two, or longer yet?

  Darville straightened from his crouch behind the bronze sculpture. One foot poised to step out, he froze. An unworldly buzz vibrated around the hall. The soft light flared and greened, then it crackled in dozens of tiny bolts of lightning.

  If he’d been discovered, he might as well face his opponent head on. Sword arm en garde, he emerged from his hiding place to face the focus of the magic trap.

  “Hold, friend!” A swarthy figure dressed in black trews and magician blue vest solidified within the lightning bolts. Arms over his head in surrender, his eyes were wide with alarm.

  “Zolltarn.” Darville lowered his sword. “Did I come out of the void like that?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t see you emerge.” The last of the buzzing faded, and with it the weird light.

  “Where are the others?” Darville searched the room for signs that the other magicians had followed him.

  “I lost track of them as we slid through the final folds of the void.”

  “Can you locate them?”

  “I don’t think I dare risk a probe. Krej has probably set traps for any flare of magic.”

  “Won’t our emergence trigger them?”

  Zolltarn shrugged in a classic Rover gesture. “I’ll deal with that when I find out.” Slowly he turned, surveying the Great Hall. “I see Krej has repaired the damage Shayla wrought last spring.” He stopped his surveillance at the window. The restless Rover stood absolutely still.

  “And improved. I wonder where he got the money for that window?” Then Darville saw it, too. A dragon pictured in colored glass. Only not a dragon. Simurgh.

  “It’s not real glass.” Zolltarn touched one of the lower panes. He had to stand on tiptoe and extend his arm full length just to reach that piece of clear red. “He conjured it out of . . . I’m not sure. I sense blood and I smell the volcanic sands of Hanassa.”

  “Blood? As in sacrifice?” Darville turned away from the dazzling window and confronted the altar. “This is new!”

  “They’ve finally done it. They’ve gone over the edge.” Zolltarn joined him beside the hideous sculpture. “Notice the face.”

  Darville looked closer, trying not to retch at the stench coming from the decaying cat body at the base of the sculpture. “It looks like Janataea.”

  “Not quite. Janataea has a straighter nose and higher cheek bones. This is her mother. Krej’s mother, the leader of the coven. I wondered what they did with her body after the rites of passing.”

  “They entombed their mother in a stone sculpture!” Hot, thick bile aimed for his throat. He didn’t want to believe this hideous effigy was the late Countess Janessa, preserved for eternity as an idol for pagan worship.

  “Wait a minute, Krej is the only child Janessa bore. His half siblings were all boys.”

  “Before her marriage to your father’s cousin, the witch Janessa had two illegitimate children. One was Janataea, the other might be the Simeon. He claims descent from Rossemeyer’s exiled queen, Safflon, and her daughter. That has never been proven.”

  “This is getting complicated, Zolltran. How do you know so much?”

  “A very long tale, worthy of a campfire and two jugs of wine. I will enlighten you later. Right now we need to find our companions. If they were going to rematerialize in this room, they’d be here by now.”

  “I’ll go up. You go down. We’ll meet back here.”

  “Stay hidden.”

  “Be wary of magic traps.” Darville checked his stride toward the servants’ stairs. “Zolltarn, is that sacrifice the body of the cat Rosse?”

  “Only our enemies know for sure. Pray that it is not.”

  We are discovered. I smell the invasion of many bodies. Curse the transport spell. Jaylor should have given us the secret. He owes Krej, and therefore the coven, the secret for saving his sniveling wife.

  If I had the secret, I would take my princess to Hanassa. We would be safe there.

  In the end, all things come to Hanassa.

  Darville may invade, he may even rescue Rosie. But he will never truly rule until he faces Hanassa.

  The shadows in the upstairs corridor were friendly. Darville hugged their shelter as he crept around the perimeter of the massive central keep. Closed and locked doors met him at every turn. Where was everybody?

  On the road between Coronnan City and here. All of Krej’s courtiers and family were elsewhere. The rooms were locked to keep the few remaining servants from disturbing the rooms, or stealing from them. Perhaps the locks were the traps Krej had set for an invasion of magicians.

  He should have encountered someone, though. A servant, or one of the Commune, possibly even Krej himself. No one. He was beginning to think he had landed in the wrong castle.

  An image of a man appeared before him. The beast-headed man of his nightmares. Long shaggy coils of red fur, the same color as Krej’s hair, covered the saber’s face and head. Clad only in a loincloth, the torso and legs rippled with strength. No body hair marred the sleek white skin.

  This was the disguise Krej had worn when he threw Darville’s ensorcelled body over a cliff and left him to die. This was the form the evil magician took when he entered Shayla’s cave and imprisoned the dragon in glass.

  Darville raised his sword, ready to attack.

  “Looking for someone, wolf-man?” Krej’s voice sneered from behind him.

  The beast image hovered and wavered. That’s all it was, an image. Darville’s enemy was behind him. He dropped the sword slightly as he turned to face his cousin wearing another beastly disguise. This time, Krej had chosen the head of a wild tusker, but instead of the dark, lead coloring of a true woods prowler, this image, too, had red fur.

  “I seem to have found him, Krej.” No emotion quavered Darville’s voice. He presented a blank facade to the magician. But the anger and outrage that had been building within him for nearly a year burned white hot and deadly in his gut.

  “Have you really?” Krej’s oily voice emanated from the opposite end of this curving hallway. At the same time, the wavering image of Krej appeared beside the more solid forms of the two beasts. Then they all faded into transparency, and back into their respective images.

  Darville blinked but did not remove his stare from the form he believed to be the source of the kingdom’s troubles.

  “We’ve done this before, Krej. Just you and me. There’s no one else to observe us. No one else to interfere. Only this time, I intend to win.”

  “You never learn, Darville. I am destined to rule Coronnan. I control the armies and the Council. I even control most of the Commune. There is nothing you can do to prevent me from killing you.”

  “Wouldn’t you rather turn me into a golden sculpture?” Darville edged to his right. The image on that side seemed to be a false one. Krej’s vision might be blocked by the figure.

  “You’ll make a magnificent addition to my collection. Thank you for the idea!” all three images spat, raising their arms to throw a spell.

  “How powerful will you be when your followers realize the extent of your perversions, Krej? My people won’t dismiss the Stargods for the bloodthirsty Simurgh. I’ve already removed your puppets from the Commune. Marnak the Elder and two other lords are in custody. Your power base is breaking down.”

  “I haven’t time to waste on debate with you.” All three images turned so that they still faced Darville fully. The left-hand figure of the saber cat stretched its neck ever so slightly more than the tusker and Krej.

  The tusker lowered its head, as if to charge and go
re Darville.

  Darville focused his attention on the saber cat, ignoring the threat of the other two images. “Maintaining the illusions of your alter egos must be a terrible drain on your magic. You also have to keep your armor up. I could have brought reinforcements with me. Then again, I could be alone. You have no way of knowing.” The tusker and man image wobbled and faded.

  Krej emerged from the illusion of the cat. His eyes glowed with renewed energy. Lightning bolts of red and green erupted from his fingers.

  Darville ducked the blasts of fiery magic, keeping his sword up. One by one, the weapon caught the flames with sizzling intensity. Each one crackled and sped the length of the blade, only to hiss and melt as it hit the guard.

  Krej glowered at Darville’s defense. A sword appeared in his outstretched hand. The weapon barely twitched, then fully engaged Darville’s blade.

  The shock of contact numbed Darville to the shoulder. He fought to maintain his grip. Krej shouldn’t have that much physical strength. The power and agility must be augmented by magic.

  Feeling surged back down Darville’s arm in hot pulses. “You’re no swordsman, Krej.” He lunged and attacked with vigor. He couldn’t allow Krej the time to throw a new magic spell.

  Darville had spent a lifetime fighting right-handed arms masters. His dominant left arm was supposed to be a disadvantage. He’d learned more than one trick to make sword play awkward for his partners. He aimed for Krej’s weak backhand.

  “This one’s for Shayla.” Their swords locked and slid to tangle at the hilts. Darville wrenched his blade free and attacked again, without waiting for a reaction.

  “This one’s for the spotted saber cat.” Darville pressed his advantage. Krej retreated, step by step, until his back was pressed against one of the many locked doors.

  “This one’s for Mikka.” As the blades clanged again, Darville knew with utmost certainty that the body of the dead cat in the Great Hall belonged to Rosse. His wife and her cat were joined in body and soul forever.