The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III

by Irene Radford

  “A blue-tipped dragon named Baamin, by any chance?” Robb asked.

  When had Robb become so succinct of speech?

  “A dragon named Baamin helped me go back in time to view my beginnings.” Jack eased himself up, keeping his back in the corner, using the walls as a brace. “There are dangers. We may not have time to do this.”

  Marcus touched the book beneath his tunic superstitiously. “It’s the only way, Jack. We have to know his ritual down to the last detail in order to reverse it. And we have to reverse it. We can’t afford to leave the gold tempting people into the gloaming. I surveyed this place meticulously before Baamin landed. There is a thick fog around it. Even without touching the gold, a person enters the edges of the gloaming whenever they walk through the gatehouse. And it is spreading, reaching down to the village.”

  He let them think about that for several long moments. “Besides, if Robb and I succeed in this and in laying the ghost to rest, Jaylor will promote us to Master Magicians,” he ended on a more optimistic note.

  “Going back in time is worse than being trapped in the gloaming, Marcus.” Jack looked him directly in the eye.

  “Nothing is worse than that half-existence,” Robb insisted.

  “Nothing is worse than having the rest of the world pass you by, where an entire week of real time feels like only a day in the spell fog. We will end the curse or die trying,” Marcus insisted.

  “You may very well die. Your time in the past is very limited. The longer you stay, the harder it is to return. You fade and fade into mist until there is nothing left of you to return. You have to pick the exact time on the exact day. Lingering is not an option. Nor is repeating the process.”

  “And the cost of the spell?” Robb asked.

  “You become part dragon in order to go back in time. You are never fully content afterward to remain merely human. The longer you stay in the past, the more the dragon in you takes of your soul.”

  “Well, then, let’s hope that Ackerly’s son recorded accurately the time and day Ackerly fought with his superiors and disappeared from the first University.” Marcus held up the little book in triumph.

  A heavy vibration traveled through the floor slates. Jack blanched and braced himself as if anticipating a kardiaquake.

  “We haven’t much time,” Zolltarn warned. “Do you hear that banging? That is a very angry mob trying to break down the gates to our refuge.”

  “This won’t hold them long,” Lanciar said as he helped Lord Andrall shove one of the bardos in front of the outer gate. The angry shouts from the villagers on the other side of the meager barrier echoed menacingly around the gatehouse tunnel.

  The noise made his head ache worse than the nightmare sounds made by the ghost last night. He’d dreamed repeatedly that Rejiia had stolen his son and was using the baby as a focus for her tortuous rituals to raise power. Rather than have the dream—vision almost—repeat endlessly he had walked the colonnade until the others roused at dawn. They, too, had wandered about heavy-eyed and listless.

  “Do you have a better suggestion?” Lord Andrall sat on the sloped edge of the sledge, adding his weight on the barricade. He had discarded his single piece of gold to free himself of the gloaming. But he hadn’t told Lord Laislac or any of the others in his party how to emerge from the perpetual mist.

  Lanciar found the man much easier to work with when he could see him and a barrier of energy did not separate them.

  The sound of men and tools ramming into the gate pounded in his ears. The wooden planks of the outer door buckled under the pressure.

  “We don’t have much besides these bardos to block the outer gate. This one is all that will fit in the gatehouse. We’ll have to close the inner portal—if it will still close—and push the rest of the sledges in front of it.” His military training quickly assessed the situation and made his decisions almost before he thought them through.

  “Weapons?” Lord Andrall tilted his head.

  “A few of your retainers have swords. Most of us have daggers and eating knives. We also have five magicians.” He shrugged his shoulders.

  “You . . . you will kill my people?” Vareena looked ghostly pale. She swayed slightly as she wrung her hands.

  “Please sit somewhere, Vareena, before you fall down,” Lord Andrall suggested. “We will do our best to spare these frightened villagers while defending ourselves.”

  “Let’s just hope our magicians find a solution to the problem of the curse before they break through,” Lanciar added. Then he began directing the closing of the inner gate.

  The assault on the gate came again, stronger this time. More of the wooden planks screeched and buckled. Lanciar dragged Lord Andrall off the sledge and into the courtyard. “Get that inner gate closed now. Use magic if you have to. Two more bardos ready to move in front of it!”

  Just then, the flying black cat—had he heard Jack call it a flywacket?—swooped into the courtyard. It landed neatly on the stonework around the well. Before it could begin to preen its wings, it caught Lanciar’s gaze.

  A blurred and confused image of mounted soldiers racing through the foothills to this lonely spot on nearly blown steeds flashed before his mind’s eye. The scene repeated itself twice more, becoming clearer each time.

  Just then the four other magicians emerged from Zolltarn’s lair.

  Jack stretched his arm for the flywacket to perch on. The bird/cat (or was it dragon/cat) pushed down with his wings once and glided over to his companion. They stared deeply into each other’s eyes for a moment. “I think I need a drink,” Jack said as if cursing.

  “Somehow I thought you’d say that,” Marcus replied. His eyes had the same half-glaze as Jack’s. He’d probably shared the information.

  “S’murghit! I think we have a problem,” Lanciar muttered.

  “Watch your language around the children,” Vareena hissed at him.

  “We haven’t time to do all that we need to,” Marcus protested.

  “Then we’ll have to improvise,” Robb replied.

  “Time to make our own luck, people,” Queen Miranda insisted upon hearing the news. “Magicians, get to work on whatever spells you have to cast to lay the ghost to rest and remove the curse of the gloaming. Lanciar, you and Lord Andrall devise and direct a battle plan. I shall keep you informed of the attack from the top of the tower.”

  Lanciar didn’t wait for Andrall to finish bowing to the queen. “Rovers,” he shouted, “on the ramparts with any loose rubble you can find. Start tearing the walls down yourselves if you have to. Throw it at the attackers, but watch your aim. We want to scare them off—not kill them. Ladies, boil water to pour down on the villagers. That should hurt and discourage without seriously maiming and killing.”

  Everyone hopped to obey as if he were truly a general and not just a middle-rank officer.

  Lanciar nodded his head to his queen. She didn’t know how run a battle, but she knew how to delegate to someone with experience. She might have been a flighty, self-absorbed teenager when she turned over the rule of her country to Simeon, but now she showed the makings of a true leader. He looked forward to negotiating with her for the free passage of Rovers through her country.

  The pounding on the gate increased, followed by a shriek of shattering wood.

  Chapter 43

  Marcus pulled the book out of his tunic and stared at the plain leather cover for a moment. He bit his lip while he prayed for the strength to complete the next task.

  He called to mind the passages Powwell had written about his father, Ackerly.

  A memory of the night he had read Ackerly’s emotions in the stone wall of the master’s suite flashed through him. Emotions he had dismissed because he did not understand them became clear. Ackerly was proud of his son.

  His son, Powwell, had not been proud of the man who sired him but had never acted the father.

  “Maybe, if we do this right, we won’t have to take a dangerous trip through time,” he said. “Ma
ybe . . .”

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” Jack replied after communing with his flywacket for a moment.

  “We can’t allow the greed the gold inspires to go beyond these walls. I believe it possible that once the stones are torn down the gloaming, and the spell, will spread as far as the stones are scattered.” Robb had returned to his normal lecture mode.

  Marcus felt better with this one return to normal. “Then let’s do it. All of you, Zolltarn and Lanciar, Margit, Robb, anyone with a bit of magical talent, come with me.”

  “My Lord Andrall, will you direct the defenses according to our plan?” Lanciar called to the lord.

  Andrall saluted him and began tossing orders right and left.

  Satisfied, Marcus took two firm steps toward the library.

  Vareena blocked his path resolutely.

  “Vareena, this could be dangerous. You’d be more help trying to soothe the villagers,” Robb said gently.

  “All the ghosts within this monastery are my responsibility. All of them,” she insisted. “That includes Ackerly. I will be there to guide him into his next existence. I must.”

  Marcus shrugged his shoulders and smiled. “When this is all over, may I escort you to your lands in Nunio, and perhaps call upon you upon occasion?” Stargods! He loved her strength and determination.

  Vareena bit her lip, then jerked her head up and down once in assent.

  Marcus suddenly felt much more confident of the outcome of this day’s work. “Come along, then, all of you. Just be prepared to duck on command and avoid that ritual knife of his. He may be a ghost, but his weapon isn’t.”

  In single-file, they moved into the shadowed coolness of the library. Diffused sunlight streamed through the high windows around the gallery, highlighting the centuries of accumulated dust. Instantly, the dust motes beneath the gallery began to swirl and concentrate. Ackerly formed more quickly than usual. Marcus saw the knife first, just before the ghost sped toward him, aiming the blade for his eyes.

  “Scatter,” Marcus called as he dived beneath Ackerly. A preternatural chill ran down his spine. Childhood fears of monsters beneath the bed made his teeth chatter.

  He clamped his jaw shut as he read one of the final passages in the journal he carried. Still lying prone, he turned the book so that it caught some of the light from the gallery windows.

  “Listen to what happened to your son, Ackerly,” he said with what little control he had left. “Listen to how you tainted everything you touched, especially the lives of your only two children—bastard children at that. ‘I shall not accept a new existence when this one passes. Life hurts too much. Love hurts more. When my sister Kalen died in the pit beneath Hanassa, a large hole ripped open in my gut and it has never healed. Her death was as filled with torment as her life. Her ghost has haunted me since. When I die, her spirit will be free, not before. I have never wanted to inflict that kind of curse upon anyone. My years of seeking the best forms of healing—even though they dipped into rogue magic—have not been enough to remove the curse laid upon us by our father. I have not truly loved anyone since Kalen died. I have not fathered any children. Ackerly’s line and his curses die with me. There will be no reincarnation for any of us.’ ”

  Marcus sensed stillness throughout the library.

  “By the Fire of my body, the Water of my blood, the Air that I breathe, and the Kardia of my bones, I call forth the restless one who dwells only in sadness and refuses to live!” Zolltarn shouted to each of the four corners of the room, the four cardinal directions.

  Vareena repeated his chant four times facing each of the four walls.

  Margit followed suit. As did Jack.

  “That sounds like a coven ritual,” Robb whispered.

  “Who cares, as long as it accomplishes something positive,” Marcus replied.

  LIES! Ackerly’s voice boomed through Marcus’ mind.

  He clamped his hands over his ears in a futile effort to block out the reverberations and the need to crawl out of the monastery in abject defeat.

  “It’s just the ghost. There is nothing to fear. We can handle him,” Marcus muttered to himself over and over.

  “Lies! You wish to steal my gold. All lies. Everything is lies.” Ackerly flew around the room so rapidly Marcus couldn’t separate the trail of dust from his ethereal robes from the cloud of dust around his hair. His voice had become audible to mundane senses. His emotions must be roiling and totally beyond control.

  Lanciar kept the ghost from fleeing to the courtyard with wild slashes of his iron sword at the doorway.

  “Your life and your death have all been lies,” Marcus announced. He noted that Ackerly stayed away from Zolltarn, Lanciar, Margit, and Vareena. The haze seemed to thicken around them, a misty veil deeper than the half existence Ackerly had created for himself and his gold.

  “What good is the gold, Ackerly? What good did you accomplish by hoarding it all these centuries?” Marcus had to keep the ghost occupied until Zolltarn finished his conjure.

  Gold is power. I have power as long as I have the gold.

  “You have nothing. Power exists only when it involves other people. Hidden away here you have power over nothing. Not even yourself.”

  I have the gold.

  “Hoarding the gold makes you a failure. You won’t use it to buy land or trade with foreign countries. You can’t buy influence in politics. You can’t help the poor. You are a failure, Ackerly. A failure in your life and in your death. You can’t even get to your next existence properly. And your greed kept your son and daughter from seeking their next existence. You denied them their due. You FAILED!” Marcus taunted the ghost.

  You know nothing. Without the gold I am nothing. Ackerly’s wails became shriller, more desperate.

  “With the gold, you are less than nothing,” a new voice said softly.

  Everyone in the room turned to look at the figure that stood at the top of the spiral iron stair. More fully formed than Ackerly, the light still shone through the man. His curly dark hair stood out around his head in a kind of halo. Old-fashioned blue robes, similar to what master magicians still wore for formal occasions, fluttered as if in a breeze. He anchored his staff against the first stair.

  Vareena took a step closer, staring at the man’s tired gray eyes. Compassion, as well as inner pain, radiated from those eyes. Those eyes had seen more pain and destruction than a man three times his age. Marcus doubted he’d seen more than thirty summers. And yet he seemed ageless, timeless. He held his twisted staff in his right hand, a miniature hedgehog in his left. A familiar that had followed him into death.

  The hedgehog bristled and wiggled in response to Powwell’s emotions.

  A curious shadow stood behind his left shoulder, a darker, shorter, duplicate of himself.

  Not too different from Jack’s double aura, or the one that Queen Rossemikka possessed.

  What strange entity haunted him?

  “We could not have conjured your son if his soul resided anywhere but drifting aimlessly in the void,” Marcus said quietly. He knew Ackerly heard him.

  “I am Powwell, of the Commune of Magicians. You called me across time for a purpose,” the new entity announced.

  “We called you to confront your father.” Marcus found the courage to speak first.

  “My father is not worth the time and trouble. Your true need and purpose must be great indeed to risk calling me forth from the void.”

  “Your father has also refused his next existence. He and his gold have cursed this place for nigh on three hundred years. We have called you to heal him,” Zolltarn answered the man’s plea. He had, after all initiated the spell.

  “You were the greatest healer of your time,” Jack added. “And you could not heal yourself because you never had the opportunity to confront your father. I thank the Stargods that the dragons gave my father the opportunity to continue his destiny as a dragon so that I could confront him and find myself in my heritage. We give you the same chan
ce.”

  “For all of our sakes, acknowledge Ackerly and guide him to his next existence,” Vareena concluded.

  “I hate to interrupt this sentimental reunion, folks, but the door around Rejiia’s tower is smoking,” Lanciar hissed from the doorway. “She’ll be drawn to the magic swirling around us all like iron to lodestone.”

  “I repeat, the man who sired me is not worth the trouble and danger you face when drawing me across time and distance.” Powwell turned away.

  I refute your accusation! Ackerly screamed. The cloud of dust approached the iron stairway. I dedicated my life to making Nimbulan’s life easier, more organized. I fed him when he was too exhausted to think. I made sure all of his equipment was at hand while he waged battle on the enemies of Coronnan. I supported him all our lives and he betrayed me. As you, Powwell, and your sister Kalen betrayed me. He stopped short at the bottom step.

  Once before the iron in the stairway had repulsed him. He could approach no closer to his son.

  Could Powwell cross the barrier iron placed between them? There were higher and thicker barriers to contend with first.

  “You betrayed Nimbulan, the greatest magician of his age, perhaps of any age. You tried to kill him with an overdose of Tambootie, and then you usurped his position in the University. You sold the services of half-trained apprentices for gold. You manipulated and coerced the lords of the land for gold. You did nothing for others, only for your own selfish greed,” Powwell accused. He kept his back to his father.

  The gold was to be your inheritance. I did not want either you or Kalen to be left destitute and dependent because of the wars. Ackerly held out a hand to his son in entreaty.

  “Then why did you secrete the gold here where no one could find it? Why didn’t you acknowledge your two bastards and at least give them names? You did nothing for us. Kalen died barely two years after you did. She was still a child. The victim of yet another who sought to use her talent for their own gain and without regard for her soul.”