The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I

by Irene Radford

  The scene changed before Jack’s eyes. The road twisted and dipped into the deep shadow of trees. His ghostly senses allowed him to see the shapes of hidden men within the darkness. Men who killed for pleasure and for the few small treasures carried by travelers.

  Bandits were rare in Coronnan. Travelers, the natural prey of the lawless, were almost as rare. After the Great Wars of Disruption, villagers retained their suspicion of strangers and fears of marauding armies. Merchants passed from city to city, stronghold to village, in large caravans. Other citizens remained home, where they belonged.

  Where had these desperate men come from?

  (Hanassa,) the dragon answered him. (These outlaws know the magic border is already crumbling in this remote sector. The Commune is not yet aware of how far or fast their magic decays.

  (Nestled in the mountains is the deep caldera of an extinct volcano. Lava tube tunnels and secret pathways lead into this hidden city. Exiled magicians, outlaws, and mercenaries live there and watch all three kingdoms for signs of weakness. Outsiders are not allowed in or out of the stronghold alive.)

  The name of the forbidden city struck dread in Jack’s heart. Legends of the harsh life there and the cruelties of its inhabitants were the stuff of nightmares.

  His nightmares.

  Sometime in the past he’d been there.

  The bandits raised a thin rope across the road. The Rover steed stumbled to his knees, twisting and bucking wildly to recover his balance. Kestra fell to the ground, rolling, instinctively protecting her belly.

  Unable to aid the woman his heart reached out to, Jack watched helplessly as the bandits pulled Kestra’s man from the steed and slit his throat. His pockets and saddlebags were emptied before he was fully dead. Three men wrestled the girl to the ground and mounted her again and again, barely waiting for a comrade to finish before the next took his turn.

  Kestra lay there, barely moving, not fighting lest her struggles lead to her death. Tears streamed down her face.

  Disgust boiled in Jack’s stomach as pain choked his throat and brought unwanted tears to his eyes. Despair made the air, his life and his body too heavy to manage.

  “Which of the bastards is my father?”

  Even as he spoke the words, the bandits carried Kestra off into the woods and across the already crumbling border, leaving her Rover guardian and the magnificent steed gutted in the middle of the road.

  (None of them. She was pregnant before she left Coronnan City.)

  Jack looked back at the dragon/man. Hope lifted his chin and his spirits.

  “Who? The dead Rover there?”

  (No. She was ordered to lay with a great magician. The child was to give the tribe the magical power to open the border for the Rovers. They still seek that child.)

  “Zolltarn is my grandfather. My grandfather still lives! What about my father. Who is my father?” Jack tried to grab the dragon/man’s shoulders and shake the information out of him. His hands slipped through air rather than touching solid flesh.

  An aura of sadness clung to the old man. His eyes closed heavily. His long white mustaches dropped into this limp beard. (You have much to learn before you can know your father. When the time is right, you will be able to look within your heart for the answers you seek.)

  Chapter 24

  Jack awoke to the predawn twitter of birds. The air around him smelled damp and chill. But he was warm and dry, his head pillowed on the foreleg of a dragon. A wide blue-tipped wing covered him better than any woven blanket.

  He opened one eye to find the probing depths of a dragon eye staring at him.

  (You slept well?)

  “Yes, yes, I did,” Jack replied, surprised to find his body free of stiffness and chill and his mind refreshed by deep, dreamless sleep.

  A thousand questions assaulted his mind as he huddled next to the dragon for warmth. “Why do Zolltarn and the Rovers still seek the missing child of Kestra?” he asked the dragon. The magic border had totally disintegrated the moment Krej ensorcelled Shayla into a glass sculpture. When Jaylor had released Shayla from her prison, she had left Coronnan because Krej was still a power to be reckoned with on the Council of Provinces. The Commune hadn’t been able to restore the border since. Rovers could come and go without Kestra’s child to break down the magical barrier.

  (Rovers keep their own close. No one within the tribe is abandoned, exiled, or orphaned.) The dragon answered.

  “So how did I end up in the poorhouse as a toddler—maybe as old as three or five? Why wasn’t Kestra rescued?”

  (Zolltarn was told that his daughter died after the attack. He mourned her but didn’t have the heart to seek further news. Yet rumors of the child persisted. Zolltarn seeks to keep Rover magic within his Rover tribe.)

  “Those years in Hanassa must have been hell for my mother.”

  (Kestra escaped through trickery. She fled with you into the teeth of a wicked storm. Merchants found her frozen to death on the road. You were still alive, sheltered by her dead body. They took you to Coronnan City, to the poorhouse, where you were cared for until you were big enough to work in the University kitchens. The merchants guessed you to be about a year old, based upon your size and inability—or unwillingness—to communicate. In truth, you were nearly four.)

  Now Jack couldn’t banish the memories of cold and fear, of loneliness and bewilderment that his mother wouldn’t wake up and feed him. Grief clogged his eyes and his throat. “She did love me!” he asserted. “She must have loved me to give up her life protecting me.” Anyone could love a baby. Who cared for Jack as a boy and a man? Now that Brevelan and Jaylor were gone, he had no one except for Fraank’s reluctant companionship and a cranky jackdaw who acted as a familiar only when the bird chose.

  Shadows flickered across the dragon’s eyes. Jack closed his own sight away from the shifting points of light lest he be enticed into another dragon-dream. The vision of his mother had shaken him more than he thought possible. For a few brief seconds he’d experienced a moment of kinship with her, a rarity in his lonely life.

  He’d been abandoned again when Baamin died. The old man had given up on life too easily. Had Kestra given up rather than face the memories of rape and despair?

  “I guess I’d better find Zolltarn when I’ve finished the healing spell.” He resigned himself to facing the wily Rover.

  (The Rovers will keep you with them, bind you to their cause, but you will never be fully a member of the tribe.) The dragon appeared suddenly alert. His wings spread slightly, almost protectively over Jack. (You have not been raised to their ways. The geas they will impose on you to keep you close will resemble the magic poison in Shayla that keeps her prisoner in this valley. A beautiful prison with ample food and space to breed, but she is chained here by pain and coercion, like a slave.) The blue-tipped horns above the dragon’s eye ridges seemed to glow in the darkness. Unnatural blue sparks flared from each of his spines and wing veins.

  “I have known slavery,” Jack mused. “I will never succumb to that evil again. Nor will I allow another to. At dawn I will do my best to heal Shayla no matter the cost.”

  (You may need more strength and wisdom than you are able to give.)

  “I’d rather die trying to help Shayla than be a slave again,” Jack resolved. “Shayla’s health and well-being affect more people that I ever will. Who will miss me if I give my all to this spell?”

  (The time has come for you to descend to the lair. Eat and drink well, for you will need all of your strength, and mine as well to throw the necessary magic.)

  “I can’t gather dragon magic,” Jack replied sadly. That inability had caused him to be rejected and shunned at the University. Because he couldn’t gather the ethereal component of magic he had been considered retarded, denied any rights, even the right to a name. He saw that, too, as a form of slavery.

  The nameless dragon lifted one eye ridge in silent query. For a moment he looked just like the cranky jackdaw when he lifted those odd white feath
ers above his eyes, or like Old Baamin cocking a bushy eyebrow at an errant apprentice. Jack dismissed the image as he took the first steps down the almost visible staircase.

  Jack paused, one foot extended toward the first step down. “Why didn’t Shayla or one of the other males give Simeon a dragon-dream to lead him astray?”

  (He is immune to the visions we weave, as are all descendants of Hanassa.)

  “Simeon was born in Hanassa, son of the exiled princess of Rossemeyer,” Jack sighed. He’d been born in Hanassa, too. Why wasn’t he immune? His Rover blood perhaps?

  The dragon didn’t offer any more explanation.

  “Shayla must be able to fly away before the next solstice.” Jack recognized the growing need within him to confront the power-hungry king who had brought so much pain and suffering to the Three Kingdoms. “I will deal with The Simeon when I have healed Shayla and seen her safely home,” he promised himself.

  Halfway down the stairs, a sense of vertigo overtook him. The smell of woodsmoke on the wind and the rising sun over hilltops dumped him back into the dragon-dream he had experienced three years ago, the first time he had met the unnamed blue-tip. He sniffed the air, agitated that the fire might sweep down Shayla’s valley and destroy her refuge as well as the pristine beauty of the place.

  “I have been here before. In my first dragon-dream.”

  (’Tis friendly fire.)

  “Friendly?”

  (’Tisn’t wild.) The chuckle behind the mental voice stopped Jack more than the command.

  “Explain, please.” Jack continued to stare out across the hills, seeking the source of the fire and the presence of the strangers who approached.

  (Villagers slash and burn to clear fields for planting. Not the most efficient means, but all they know. They defy The Simeon’s policy of exploiting the land for export. That way leads to starvation for all—human, animal, and plant life. These people begin to work the land, to nourish it with crops and with their toil. A friendly fire can be the beginning of life.)

  “Margit! Damn it, girl, where are you hiding?” Darville yelled as he carried Mikka to their bed. “Margit!”

  Mikka moaned and clutched her belly.

  “Easy, my love. I’m getting help.”

  “Why now?” Mikka sobbed. “Why must I lose the baby now. I carried her so long, nearly five moons.” She clung to her husband, not letting him leave her on the bed.

  “Margit!” Darville gently disengaged Mikka’s hands where they clutched his tunic. He rubbed at the raw wound in his left arm, newly aggravated by carrying Mikka from her solar where she had collapsed in a pool of pain and blood.

  A sneeze betrayed Margit’s arrival before she spoke. The only time the girl didn’t sneeze was when she was out of doors.

  “Yes, Your Grace?” Margit dipped a curtsy as she skidded to a halt in the doorway. She breathed heavily as if she had run from the cellars.

  “Summon Jaylor and Brevelan. We need them now. Hurry, girl.” He shoved her toward the alcove where she slept.

  “What? What am I supposed to do?” She turned big innocent eyes on him, gray-blue and wide as the Great Bay.

  “I haven’t time for your deceptions, Margit. I know you are Jaylor’s apprentice and summon him on a regular basis. Now do it again. We need Brevelan here. The queen will lose the baby if she doesn’t get here quickly.”

  “How’d you know, sir?” Margit asked as she fumbled with a firestick to light the candle. Frustrated by her hurry, she snapped her fingers and brought flame to the wick.

  “I’ve been dodging Jaylor’s tricks and magical pranks since I was fourteen. I knew he had a spy around somewhere. You’re the most logical person.”

  “Yes, sir.” She closed her eyes a moment. When she opened them again, they were slightly glazed, looking through her tiny shard of glass into far distances.

  “Darville, she mustn’t. It’s not safe for Brevelan to come,” Mikka protested weakly from the center of the bed. Her face had no more color in it than the white pillow slips.

  “I don’t care. Brevelan is the only healer I trust to help you. If anyone can save you and the baby, ’tis her.” He didn’t dare think about the possibility someone had slipped her another abortive, deliberately murdering their baby.

  “Shayla, can your brats . . . um . . . children sing?” Jack gently pushed an inquisitive green-tipped youngster away from his pack. The dragon extended his lower jaw in a good imitation of a pout.

  As fast as he separated one baby dragon from the packs, another breathed fire on the coals and burned the warming remains of last night’s dinner. One of the purple-tipped dragonets scooped up a mouthful of water from the chuckling stream that ran through the cave, and sprayed it over the now blazing fire.

  Jack nudged the helpful baby aside with his knee. A curious sensation of affection spread through him at the brief touch. He dismissed it. The dragonets were cute.

  Then he fished the soggy, charred meat out of the coals, wondering just how hungry he really was.

  (Sing? Why do you wish the children to sing?) Shayla spread her undamaged wing in a gesture to gather the dozen curious youngsters to her. The females and the shy purples came readily to her side. The more aggressive males lingered around the fire, packs, and pallets.

  A sharp, high-pitched command, almost above human hearing, from the mother dragon sent the reluctant children scuttling to her.

  Jack almost heard the order to behave in the back of his head. He pushed aside the compulsion to join the baby dragons under Shayla’s wing. Another directive from Shayla nearly sent him outside with the dragonets for the morning’s hunt.

  Only one purple-tip remained, hidden behind his mother’s flank.

  (Why do you wish my brats to sing?) Shayla captured his gaze with her compelling jeweled eyes. No rancor dwelled within the sparkling facets, only a mother’s good humor.

  “The only healing spell I know is the one Brevelan used on Darville. Song is her medium. I was hoping the little ones could aid in the spell by carrying the harmony.”

  (Alas, dragon songs are not for human ears. Your hearing would shatter should they lift their voices and they are not yet old enough to control communication between minds. However, you should be able to gather a little extra magic from this one.) With her muzzle, she nudged the shy youngster crouched behind her. The purple-tip dug in his claws and refused to budge.

  “Let him stay hidden, Shayla. I can’t gather dragon magic.”

  (Anyone can gather magic from a purple-tip, boy. Even you!) the unnamed blue-tip bellowed into Jack’s mental ears. (That’s why they are so rare and only one lives to adulthood. The fate of our two has not yet been determined.)

  Jack cocked his head skeptically, staring at the shy dragonet. “Can I really?”

  The baby dragon inched forward with more prodding from his mother. Jack reached out to gently pet the sensitive knob of his unformed spiral horn in the middle of his forehead.

  (Amaranth,) the baby dragon nearly purred with pleasure.

  Faint traces of power tingled beneath Jack’s fingertips. Just like tapping a ley line!

  “How much magic can I take from Amaranth without damaging him?”

  (As much as you can. You will not damage him. However, he is only a baby and you have no other magician to combine with you. You must remain in physical contact with him at all times during the spell,) Shayla informed him.

  “I’ll take whatever help I can get.

  “I used to be considered a decent tenor.” Fraank roused from his pallet. A coughing fit overtook him. He rolled to his knees, slumping forward weakly until the racking spasms passed.

  “Think you can support a note for the duration of a spell?” Jack asked skeptically. He waited for a reply that didn’t come.

  Fraank hung weakly in his kneeling position, drenched in cold sweat, panting for breath.

  “When this spasm passes,” he gasped, still too weak to stand.

  “What about your mates?” Jac
k asked Shayla, not willing to accept Fraank’s offer.

  (They may listen and try to support your Song. Human music is not a dragon talent.)

  Jack hastily swallowed a few more bites of his breakfast for fuel. Surprisingly, the meal wasn’t ruined. He ate some more and washed it down with fresh, cold spring water and added a handful of dried fruit from his pack.

  “Let’s get started,” he announced loudly, hoping a few of the male dragons might be listening. If they could harmonize at all, they’d help.

  He knelt beside Shayla, touching her damaged wing with his left hand while his right arm draped around Amaranth’s neck. A first deep breath cleared Jack’s mind. The second breath on three counts sharpened his vision and brought out the auras surrounding everything within the cave, animate, plant, and mineral. The third breath triggered his trance and gave him access to the void.

  Awareness of sight and sound, place and time faded. Only Shayla existed with him. She entered his mind, he became the dragon, they melded into one being, one knowledge, one soul. The horrible burning wound engulfed them both.

  After the first jolt of sharp pain, awareness of the wound receded to a constant throbbing burn.

  Jack sounded a deep note to counteract the hot ache and residual dull misery left by Simeon’s evil.

  A major fifth above the first note centered the black pain to a single location in his left arm. No longer did it radiate and infect his entire body.

  Behind, above, and within him a second voice found the tenor note above his bass. Yet another male voice brought in the harmonic third.

  A distant memory of Brevelan’s clear soprano soaring through a melody lighted within Jack. He echoed the Song in his own vocal range.

  The tune slid around and under the black burn, encapsulating it in magic. The wound lifted clear of delicate wing membranes, a visible entity pulsing and angry, yet contained by the magic of the Song. The wound sought to break free of the spell, sending new roots toward the dragon wing. Jack pushed it farther away, commanding it to dissolve. It resisted and drained strength from the Singers.