The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III

by Irene Radford

  “My heart beats for your heart.” The rhythm of his pulse stuttered and started up in a new pattern to match Kinnsell’s erratic and weak beat.

  Slowly Powwell’s heart beat stronger, more regularly, forcing healing blood to circulate through Kinnsell, pushing the man’s heart to assume a matching rhythm.

  Powwell watched his blood seeking out the damage in lungs, heart, liver, and kidneys. At each vital organ he pushed dissolving tissue back into place, binding it to the organs with Tambootie glue and his own healing blood.

  Drop by slow drop, Powwell pulled the tainted blood into his own body, replacing it with his own. The Tambootie in his system surrounded the seeds of the disease, making them inert and ineffective. He used every bit of the residual healing properties of the tree of magic and still tainted blood flowed back and forth between his body and Kinnsell’s.

  The blackness of the void encroached on Powwell’s inner vision. He dove deeper into Kinnsell’s lungs, desperately trying to repair enough damage for the man to breathe on his own. Powwell’s own breathing became ragged, incomplete, clogged with blood. Weakness assailed his heart.

  “Powwell, come out of it. You’ve gone too far,” a voice urged him from afar.

  Something shook the body he’d left behind on this long journey into another man’s life. He didn’t care. That body belonged to another existence, another person. He hadn’t the strength for anything but to follow the pulses of blood through choked vessels.

  Afternoon, inside Kinnsell’s shuttle, city of Hanassa

  Rollett watched Kinnsell closely for the first signs of rousing from the coma. When his eyelids fluttered in dream sleep, he allowed Yaala to kneel beside Kinnsell and Powwell’s now twitching body.

  The younger magician remained unconscious. Rollett hoped they’d get out of here in time to rouse him with Tambootie before the plague damaged him beyond repair.

  “Your body is younger than mine, Rollett, your mind more receptive to change,” Lyman said. “Perhaps you had best do this, while I keep watch on that mob. They sound ugly, near riot.”

  Rollett nodded his acceptance. If Yaala failed to absorb enough information, he might be able to fill in the gaps.

  “I need to keep one hand on your face here.” He placed the fingers of his right hand on Yaala’s temple. “The other hand will link me to Kinnsell’s mind. But you need to touch my temple the same way. That will link our minds together. I am just the vessel for passing knowledge from him to you. Do you understand, Yaala?”

  She nodded mutely, never taking her eyes off Powwell. Her right hand kept reaching toward him, in comfort, in love.

  “Concentrate, Yaala.” Rollett grabbed her reaching hand and placed it on his own head. “If we are ever going to get out of here and get help for Powwell and all the people Maia has exposed to this plague, then you have to concentrate on learning how to fly this strange dragon out of here.”

  “For Powwell, for my city.” She lifted bewildered eyes to his face. “For us, for this strange ’tricity that flows between us.”

  Several fists pounded fiercely on the portal to the mechanical dragon. The vessel shook violently.

  “We haven’t much time,” Lyman warned them. He left his post behind Powwell to glance out one of the small round windows. “The crowd is turning violent. The Rovers are retreating into the palace under a rain of stones and offal.”

  “Feed us! Feed us. Feed us,” the people chanted over and over. “Save us from the kardiaquakes!” The muffled voices penetrated the walls of the vessel with increasing intensity.

  The dragon trembled under the impact of their blows, much as the kardia had shaken within the pit.

  Rollett drew on his last reserves of physical strength and took himself into a deep trance. Before the void could claim him, he dove into Kinnsell’s mind. A wall of armor repelled his first assault. A second and third try weakened the man’s natural defenses but still repelled him.

  Slowly. Go slowly and ask politely, Powwell told him. His mental voice was weak and distant.

  Rollett didn’t question the boy’s instructions. He was linked to Kinnsell in a stronger bond of blood and magic than Rollett could hope to achieve with only a touch.

  Please, he asked Kinnsell. Please let us help you. Show us how to fly this strange dragon back to your daughter and help.

  The wall of resistance dissolved. A flood of bewildering images flowed swiftly past Rollett’s mind’s eye. He opened his connection to Yaala, finding her easier to reach than anyone he’d ever contacted, except when he worked in concert with Commune Magicians, minds and souls mingling and augmenting each other. He tried to organize the rapid pictures filling his mind and failed miserably.

  You don’t need to understand this. Just pass it on to me. Yaala almost laughed inside his mind. The happy flow within her thoughts showed him that she understood.

  He relaxed his vigil over the images and opened himself like a canal.

  Repetition brought some sense of information passing through him. He caught glimpses of the control panel at the front of the vessel. Red lights, green lights, flashing lights, and steady burns imprinted on his memory. A negative aura surrounded the strange crown of more blinking lights. Yaala couldn’t use that, it responded only to Kinnsell. Then he saw visions of the entire shuttle—the proper name for the dragon filtered past at some point—flying steadily a hundred dragon lengths above the ground. Air, shimmering with heat, but still colorless, flowed out of the “jet engines” at the rear of the ship. Then he saw a hand passing over the control panel in a new pattern. The engines spat red flame and roared louder than thunder, louder than the largest kardiaquake in the pit. The shuttle turned its nose upward and shot into the heavens almost faster than the eye could follow.

  The noise of the crowd outside shook Rollett out of contact with Kinnsell and Yaala. His trance fell to pieces.

  They all collapsed into a heap.

  “The Rovers have turned the mob against us.” Lyman pulled Rollett off of Yaala who lay atop Powwell who lay atop Kinnsell. “They are using metal shovels and rakes as well as spears and pikes against the skin of this dragon. They think we have food in here. Maia is trying to open the door from the outside. I’m overriding her commands from in here. I don’t know how much longer I can keep them out.”

  “Did you get enough information, Yaala?” Rollett shook his head to clear it of the last traces of the trance.

  “I think so.” Her voice shook and so did her hands. She turned frightened eyes up to Rollett. Her mind remained connected to his.

  What he saw there scared him. “Yaala, we need to take the ship to the capital. We have to get help for Powwell and Kinnsell—quickly. They are dying. We can send food and healers back here to help the others.”

  “Hanassa the city is dying. I can’t abandon these people.”

  “You’ll burn out the rockets if you use them to blast a hole through the crater wall.” The strange vocabulary flowed out of his mouth as if he’d always known the words for this technology. “We won’t be able to fly the shuttle afterward. And there is no guarantee you will succeed. We may be stranded here with this very angry and very hungry mob.”

  “I have to try. I can’t condemn a thousand people to a slow and painful death from starvation. Provided the mountain doesn’t collapse on them first. Kinnsell thinks the plague has stopped spreading. It has taken those who are weak and vulnerable, the healthy ones are too healthy for the disease to live inside us. I have to free my people, Rollett. This is my legacy as Kaalipha of Hanassa. I have to help my people in the only way I can. I have to.”

  Chapter 42

  Afternoon, home of Myrilandel, Ambassador from the Nimbus of Dragons, Coronnan City

  Katie watched in amazement as the healers and extra magicians surrounding Nimbulan reared their heads in surprise. The blue glow of their healing spell fizzled and died. Nimbulan lay exposed and vulnerable to his faulty heart once more. Without consulting each other, the magicians rose
as one person and walked out the door.

  “How dare you desert your patient!” Katie bustled after them. She grabbed the sleeve of the last man in line. He shook off her grip and continued in the wake of his fellows. None of them looked back or heeded her pleas.

  “Are you all in a trance?” she yelled at their retreating backs.

  “Come back here, every last one of you!” Quinnault ordered in his best parade ground voice.

  “I’m sorry, Your Grace, this summons takes precedence. I dare not stay when the others leave,” Whitehands said quietly as he trailed after his fellows.

  The magicians continued staring straight ahead as they rapidly marched toward the nearest bridge.

  “Scarface calls them. They obey a compulsion,” Myri said. She looked as if she might also follow the magicians. Then she forced her gaze back to her husband. She sank back onto her heels and lifted his limp hand.

  “Compulsion spells are illegal, forbidden by the Commune. Scarface himself wrote that law.” Quinnault reached for his short sword. He eased it out of his sheath a few finger-lengths, then rammed it back home. Weapons wouldn’t solve this problem.

  Katie rushed to kneel beside Myri. “What must we do? We can’t leave him like this.”

  “He breathes on his own. They managed to repair some of the damage to his heart,” Myri said listlessly. Her pale blond hair hung limply about her shoulders. She plucked at Nimbulan’s hand with anxious fingers. Lavender circles of exhaustion ringed her eyes.

  “You must rest, Myri.” Katie wrapped her arms around her friend and helped her stand once more. “You must take care of the new baby. Your neighbors will be bringing Amaranth back here soon.” Katie chanced a quick glance to Kaariin, sitting in the corner with Marilell. “Think about your daughter, Myri. Bad enough she see her father so ill, but not you, too.”

  “I can’t. I have to stay with him.”

  “We will stay for now,” Quinnault said. He joined his wife in wrapping his arms around his sister. “Go upstairs and rest. I’ll send some of my men to find out what is going on at the Commune. I hope I’m not sorry I relied upon Scarface’s honor to step down as Senior Magician.” He hugged Myri tightly, released her, and stepped to the front door to address the armed men who still stood guard there.

  “Bessel is in the kitchen preparing a drug to help Nimbulan’s heart beat regularly,” Katie offered. A slight grin tugged at her mouth. “I don’t think Bessel will obey Scarface’s summons. The boy seems to be immune to outside interference.”

  “My apprentice has never been disobedient,” Nimbulan whispered. He breathed shallowly but regularly. A bit of color had returned to his face and the blue tinge to his nostrils and fingernails had given way to a very pale pink.

  Myrilandel pressed her fingertips to his neck pulse. “Too rapid,” she said after a few moments. “But strong enough as long as you do not exert yourself.”

  Katie wondered how she did that without a timepiece to measure the pulse against.

  “I fully intend to remain alive long enough to see our son born, beloved.” Nimbulan captured Myri’s hand with his own and pressed his lips to her palm.

  “I do not wish to raise a fatherless child, Lan. You will live a long while yet, and father many more children. Shayla has told me so. Dragons do not lie. But you frightened me for a time.” Myri pressed Nimbulan’s hand to her cheek and held it there a long moment.

  Katie’s heart swelled with joy at the evidence of the love between her two friends.

  Quinnault came up behind Katie, pulling her tight against his chest. He kissed the top of her head. They cherished the moment of togetherness for as long as they could.

  A flurry of movement in the back of the house brought Myri’s and Quinnault’s heads up in an intense listening posture.

  “Nimbulan, Your Grace, we have to stop them. Scarface is going to burn the library!” Bessel skidded to a halt on the slick flagstones just short of colliding with his king.

  “Is that why he summoned the entire Commune to attend him?” Quinnault held the breathless boy by the shoulders. The whiteness of his knuckles showed his effort to keep from shaking information out of him.

  “Yes.” Bessel gulped a huge mouthful of air as he nodded his head. “We have to stop him.”

  “Why does he take such dire action?” Myri asked the question on all of their minds.

  “Because knowledge is power,” Katie answered.

  “So no one else will know that the Tambootie will cure the plague,” Bessel added. “Magicians are immune because the Tambootie remains in their bodies from the trial by smoke when they become journeymen. There isn’t enough of the tree of magic to cure all of the people of Coronnan as well as feed the dragons. He’s more concerned with his supply of magic than with the people.”

  “He can’t do this. We have to make a cure available to anyone who needs it.” Myri stood up in protest. “So many suffer.” She clutched her belly protectively. “I have to heal those who suffer, but I can’t. . . .”

  “We need to consult the dragons,” Quinnault added decisively.

  “There’s more trouble, Your Grace.” Bessel gulped air a moment then squared his shoulders. “Rovers in the city are extorting protection money from the merchants. They say they’ve bribed your guards to help them. They set fire to a carpenter’s shop earlier today because he wouldn’t pay them protection money. The neighbors put out that fire. Then, on my way back here just now, a band of Rovers were beating up the baker in the next marketplace. I’ve chased them off for now, but they’ll be back.”

  “How did you chase off a gang of Rovers, young man?” Nimbulan asked, trying to raise himself on one elbow. “They don’t frighten easily. Especially in groups.”

  “I set an ember of witchfire in the seat of the leader’s pants. Last I saw of him, he was running for the river with flames shooting out of his bum. The others didn’t know what to do without him, so they followed him right into the river.”

  Afternoon, Kinnsell’s shuttle, city of Hanassa

  Yaala ran her fingertips over the touch pads on the control panel. Kinnsell’s memories guided her movements. With a few gestures, her muscles knew how to fly this machine as well as her brain did. She wished she had access to the cyber controls. Just thinking what she needed would be easier than using the panel.

  Holding her breath in anticipation of flight, she pressed the ignition sequence.

  The jets roared to life. The shuttle vibrated with controlled power, suppressed motion. A thrill ran through her. If the engineers of Hanassa had been allowed to experiment and expand the technology of the generators and ’tricity over the last seven hundred years rather than merely patch and repair, they might have developed mechanical flight. Might have . . . Surely the books in the Kaalipha’s library would help dreamers expand their knowledge and their technology. But few, if any, had been allowed to learn the arcane art of reading.

  She didn’t have time for idle speculation. She had the controls of this shuttle now, for however brief a time.

  Her stomach bolted toward her throat as the shuttle lifted free of the kardia. The desperate cries of hunger and anger outside shifted to fear.

  “Soon,” she promised them. “Soon you will be free.” She closed her ears to their pleas as she rotated the shuttle so that the jets faced the partial tunnel through the crater walls to the outside. Slowly, she backed up so that the engines discharged directly into the excavations Rollett had started.

  “You did good work, Rollett. The size of your tunnel is a perfect fit,” she told him. “And you were nearly through to the outside. Less than a quarter of the way is left.”

  “There is still time to fly away. We can send food and healers back from the capital,” he reminded her.

  “They wouldn’t come. Hanassa is a city of outlaws. No one cares about this place except you and me. I’ve got to do this.”

  “Yaala,” Kinnsell called to her weakly. “It won’t work. The shuttle has to be vertical w
hen you fire the rockets. You have to be above the planet’s atmosphere.”

  “I know.” She closed her eyes and placed her palm on the clear panel she knew would switch power from jets to rockets.

  “Warning, the maneuver you are about to execute does not fall within accepted parameters,” a strident female voice proclaimed from the depths of the control panel.

  “Retract the wings, Yaala,” Rollett said. “If you don’t retract the wings, you’ll break them off.”

  “Right,” Yaala toggled the wing switch. A grinding noise ran the full length of the shuttle. She looked out the windows to make certain the shuttle remained intact.

  “Wings tucked up neatly,” Lyman called peering through one of the windows.

  Yaala closed her eyes. “Please let this work,” she prayed. Then she punched the engage button at the same time slamming the shuttle’s flight direction into reverse. The shuttle vaulted backward, slamming into the narrow confines of the tunnel. A great shuddering of the hull and screaming of tortured metal pierced her ears as the shuttle scraped the walls of the tunnel. The engine blast backlashed along the sides of the craft within the narrow confines of the excavation. The temperature gauge crept upward.

  “Warning, insufficient altitude for rocket engines. Do not proceed,” the unnatural voice ordered.

  Yaala pushed more fuel to the roaring engines. The temperature gauge crept higher, pushing against the warning red zone.

  “Warning, hull temperatures twenty percent above normal.” The strident voice rose in pitch to a tinny whine.

  Inch by inch the shuttle crept backward toward the outside world and freedom. A tiny viewscreen on the control panel showed the engines eating away at the blockage within the tunnel.

  Some of the flames still washed the hull seeking escape.

  “The engines can’t take much more of this,” Rollett shouted above the thunder that surrounded and filled the shuddering shuttle.

  “Warning! Hull temperatures sixty percent above normal. Warning! Warning!” the voice squeaked almost beyond hearing range.