“This is the last time,” he declared to himself. “This must be the last battle.”
Across the way, Nimbulan spied a bustle of activity around Ackerly’s robed form. He wore bright yellow today, the signature color of his own magic rather than Nimbulan’s blue.
A second magician in formal robes of scarlet stepped to the front. He held up the carcass of a butchered goat for all to see. His ritual knife dripped red. The Bloodmage. Moncriith. Fear, pain, and the spilling of more blood on the field of battle would fuel his magic above and beyond the endurance of most solitary magicians.
Would the combined might of the communal magic be enough to defeat him?
“Never again, Bloodmage. Your kind will never practice magic in Coronnan again,” he vowed.
Nimbulan raised his hand, palm outward, fingers slightly curved, little finger crooked in a half circle. The temptation to spin the threads of the Kardia nearly overpowered him. “Force of habit.” He shook his hand free of the tingling ley lines radiating over the entire surface of the planet.
“Gather dragons,
gather guardians,
magic bright and dear.
Gather power,
gather union,
Join the vision clear.”
He commanded the men and boys assembled behind him. He felt the shuffling and aligning as they all joined hands. Rollett and Lyman each placed a hand on his shoulder to bring him into the chain of mounting power. His hands were free to throw the spells he devised in the course of the battle.
Across the way, Ackerly wove his hands in an ancient pattern to call forth firebombs. The Bloodmage drew an arcane pattern in the grass at his feet with the bloodied ritual knife.
A moment of inadequacy flashed before Nimbulan. He’d done this before as chief Battlemage for a powerful warlord. But never before had he performed this chore with so much at stake.
“Peace,” he reminded himself. “We earn peace with this one last confrontation.”
A dragon rose up into the sky from behind him. The rising sun caught the crystal outlines, showering the field with rainbows. He scanned the wingspan. Red. Rouussin. Nimbulan had learned all of their names, all of their histories last night. As they had learned his. The magicians and dragons worked today in true communion.
The big male dragon craned his neck, peering directly at Ackerly and the Bloodmage.
The Bloodmage recoiled, throwing his right arm, still holding the knife, over his eyes to shield him from the beneficent light.
Ackerly laughed at the man’s fear. The traitorous assistant swelled his chest as he gathered the tremendous amount of dragon magic in the air.
Between the two knolls, the army of Kammeryl d’Astrismos edged backward, bunching up in disorderly knots. They cowered away from the dragon, looking to the officers mounted on their flanks and to their rear for direction.
Good. The space between the two armies widened appreciably, giving Nimbulan room to work his spell.
“You want to play with fire, Ackerly? I’ll give you more fire than you bargained for.” He wished he’d had time to devise a specific tactic rather than randomly counter whatever the enemy threw at him.
Lyman began the first line of the spell. Then all of the gathered Commune repeated the words in unison. Power built within them. Nimbulan spoke the words by rote, paying little heed to their meaning, concentrating all of the massing energy into powerful arrows that would explode the firebombs into tiny fragments that lacked enough heat to ignite anything.
Ackerly launched his balls of flame. They whizzed over the heads of Kammeryl’s army, arcing upward, then descending toward the farmers and craftsmen who made up Quinnault’s forces.
Nimbulan threw his probes into the bombs. Tiny arrows of light sped toward the dozen flaming missiles.
Moncriith shouted a chant of discordant sounds.
Nimbulan’s probes ran into a solid wall of magic, finger-lengths from their targets. The balls of flame continued forward. Quinnault’s men ducked and held their few shields over their heads.
Nimbulan launched a new round of arrows on a shorter flight path. Spell met spell in a blinding flash directly in front of his eyes. He blinked and shook his head, trying to clear it of the dazzle blindness.
Below him, Quinnault’s army sagged in relief, but they didn’t break formation. Nimbulan let go a tiny sigh of satisfaction. The men were loyal. They wouldn’t break easily.
Moncriith smiled briefly in acknowledgment of Nimbulan’s quick thinking. He launched a spell of his own. A dense cloud formed above the center of the field. Lightning flashed within the roiling darkness. The mist sent out seeking tentacles toward the ranks of Quinnault’s men. Each thrusting coil of blackness was tipped with searing green fire.
Kammeryl’s army surged forward in the wake of the cloud. Quinnault’s men threw up their hands and shields to protect their heads from the fires and jerked backward in a wave.
Nimbulan countered the cloud with a gush of water gathered from the nearby river. It dissolved and scattered harmlessly. He still had to deal with the seasoned troops rushing forward, weapons raised, battlecries ululating from their throats.
Quickly he levitated a cache of metal throwing stars at the attackers. The razor-sharp weapons faltered in their trajectory and dropped harmlessly to the ground. Neither Ackerly nor Moncriith had countered the spell.
Who? Who else interfered with this battle?
Kammeryl’s forces swept closer.
Nimbulan tried to resurrect the throwing stars with a rapid series of hand motions. He had to levitate them before they buried themselves deep in the Kardia, never to be used again.
The throwing stars remained inert.
“Quickly, Nimbulan, shatter their weapons. Do it before they kill anyone.” Myri tugged anxiously at his arm.
He didn’t stop to question her presence. He didn’t dare think about the danger she might be in.
The first rank crashed into Quinnault’s amateur defenders.
“Metal grow brittle
fragile become
shatter like spittle
dive into the loam.”
He threw the hastily invented poem at the clashing armies.
Swords and pikes, lances and shields all crumbled into thousands of pieces. As directed, the shards of metal sank deeply into the top layer of dirt, just as the throwing stars had.
Men from both armies looked in dismay at their weapon-less hands, at missing armor, and finally at their Battlemages for explanation. They shuffled back and forth in indecision.
“Shayla says you can only use the magic for defense. You can’t attack,” Myri cried, still hanging onto Nimbulan’s arm. “The throwing stars couldn’t obey your spell.”
“Defend?” He looked at her, a little dazed at the concept. He’d always worked for strong warlords who considered the best defense to be an overwhelming offense.
“Look above you, men,” Moncriith shouted across the field. Magic augmented his voice so that all could hear. “Look at the demons that force this battle. Do you wish to be slaves of the demons? Do you wish to lose your souls as well as your lives to them? My magic is stronger than theirs. I have neutralized Nimbulan, the greatest Battlemage of our time. I have ended his powers and shattered your weapons! Now I will liberate the souls of all those who have died on this field in times past. They shall no longer be the tools of the demons.”
“He’s using magic to make all believe his lies,” Lyman whispered in Nimbulan’s ear. “If we can show the people how he lies . . . Stargods, he’s doing it!”
Nimbulan looked where the old man pointed. Mist boiled up from the river banks. The dense fog rolled inland too rapidly to be natural. Within heartbeats, the stifling moisture enveloped Nimbulan and his Commune.
Shifting clouds within clouds distorted images within a few inches of Nimbulan’s nose. Trees and outcroppings took on engorged dimensions. They seemed to move and shift from place to place as distance and time lost all meaning
.
The gray water vapor brightened to green smoke, backlit as if by natural fire. Coiling tendrils writhed and formed faces in the fearsome mist.
“Armies of the dead. They march toward us through the fog,” one of the young apprentices screamed. He broke the link with the magicians on either side of him. The power of Communal magic dissipated into the mist.
Ghostly faces solidified, clothed in the armor of twenty years ago. Horrible wounds of lance and fire showed through rents in rotting tunics in the colors of lords long-dead.
Druulin, face and hands horribly burned, stared directly at Nimbulan. Accusing. Demanding retribution for betrayal and desertion.
Nimbulan’s body and will froze in the face of his master. He hadn’t died with Druulin twenty years ago because he and Ackerly had deserted their master. They had been cowardly and disloyal. They deserved to die now. Die as horribly as Druulin had. . . .
“Stargods, he’s conjured the dead from previous battles fought in this field.” Lyman’s hand jerked against Nimbulan’s shoulder as if to ward himself with the cross of the Stargods.
The ward broke the mesmerizing stare from Druulin’s ghost. Nimbulan closed his eyes and mind to the horrible accusations of his mentor.
“Stay linked!” Nimbulan ordered. “We cannot fight the Bloodmage individually. We have to stay together.”
Above him, dragon wings beat against the stagnating air. The fog faded but the dead continued to march forward, intent on killing any who stood in their way.
“Misty wraiths, lost in time,
Seek your fate in love benign.
Go your way, your life fulfilled,
The void restores your spirits killed.”
He chanted an invitation for the displaced ghosts to find their way back to the void and their next existence. The magicians behind him repeated the incantation.
They recited the spell a third time, together with growing confidence.
The fog thinned. Ghostly faces dissolved. The screams of terror faded in the ranks of soldiers caught between the two Battlemages.
“See the lost souls demons have betrayed and prevented from finding their next existence. I send them away in peace,” Moncriith proclaimed.
“A little late, Moncriith,” Nimbulan said as he gathered his wits to face the next attack from the Bloodmage.
The slight river breeze that dissipated the mist took on a musky, sweet scent. Real smoke replaced the mist. The smoke of burning green Tambootie mixed with Timboor.
Nimbulan raised his hands to place a barrier between himself and the deadly smoke. No power tingled in his palms. He had no magic left to protect his troops or his magicians. He gasped for breath and took in a lungful of the poisonous smoke. In a moment, he’d begin hallucinating.
He thrust Myri behind him to protect her as much as he could.
Chapter 37
A ckerly fanned the flames higher on his bonfire of fresh and aged Tambootie limbs. The green flames licked hungrily at the fuel. Smoke poured upward in a spiraling column. The wind was already from the west, born in the cold mountain range, seeking the warmer flatter plains of Coronnan. He needed no magic to send the smoke directly into Nimbulan’s face.
Years of suppressed resentment for his childhood friend and companion built with each puff of smoke and burning log. “Your respect for me was measured against the size of my talent, Nimbulan.” He stabbed at the fire with a fresh stick, building the flames higher, high enough to burn the green wood with the deadly sap still in it.
“You measured everyone against your own magical talent and none of us matched you, so you were superior to all. You used everyone you came in contact with—made them clean up the mess you left behind. You had to be the best, so only your desires, your talents, and your wisdom mattered. But where would you be if I hadn’t arranged your business affairs, taught the apprentices, kept you fed, and made sure you had a tent to sleep in? Well let me tell you, Nimbulan, I can gather magic now, as easily as any of your Commune. I can work any spell I want with very little effort. I’m as good as you. Better. Because I also have the gold. Gold to buy people and luxuries and respect. That’s something you’ll never have. No one will respect you unless you possess gold and are willing to make more gold. Only gold matters to mundanes.”
He threw another stick into the greedy flames. The fire burned too hot. The smoke climbed too high before spreading out and engulfing the opposing magicians. He called up more wind. Harder to do that now. Why?
The dragons, dimly visible above the battlefield withdrew. The magic disappeared with them. Ackerly delved into the store of magic within his body. The Commune hadn’t figured out how to do that yet. He’d stumbled on it by accident. Only he knew that unlike the old magic, this new power could be stored for later use. The dragons didn’t have to be present for him to work magic.
“I’ll see you in chains before this day is done, Nimbulan. And I will rejoice because you will be my servant and your dragons will help me. Dragons like gold. They hoard and treasure it. My gold makes me one with them. Only me!” he chortled as he danced around the fire. He made a full circle, skipping and hopping, clapping his hands.
Moncriith looked at him strangely.
“You have your rituals, I have mine,” Ackerly yelled back at the man with knife scars all over his face, hands and body, from where he’d drawn blood to fuel his magic.
Moncriith didn’t understand true power either. His scars marked him as a powerful Bloodmage. He created fear wherever he went. But he had no gold. Only gold bought power.
As Ackerly laughed again, the wind shifted. He gulped a great draught of the smoke. Dizziness shifted and fractured his vision. He covered his mouth with his sleeve and breathed deeply through the fabric.
Some of the poisonous smoke leaked through. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he coughed heavily, trying to rid his body of the smoke and yet still breathe. He felt as if he’d stumbled into one of Lord Kammeryl’s torture devices. Iron bands constricted his chest, pressing tighter. Tighter yet. Squeezing the life from him. Tighter.
Ackerly tried desperately to erect a barrier between himself and the deadly smoke. His store was empty. There was no more magic in the air to gather.
His lungs froze in the poisonous smoke.
(We refuse you the magic. You do not work for unity and peace,) a disapproving voice came into his mind.
“Help me!”
(You must help yourself.)
Darkness took Ackerly’s mind. Pain kept him awake. The smoke grew thicker. Dirt pressed into his mouth and nose. Air. I have to have air. . . .
At least my gold is safe. No one will find it in three hundred years.
Moncriith took a whiff of the noisome air. Memories of his own trial by the Tambootie smoke swirled around him like coils of suffocating mist. His visions of demons had been prophetic. They took the form of women, naked from the waist up—voluptuous women with pale skin and fair hair. Magretha, his first love with her lush and welcoming bosom. Other lovers, all whores. All the demons he saw in the smoke had hideous lower halves with numerous snakelike limbs that coiled around throat and heart, crushing him to near death while titillating his male parts to excruciating fullness. At the time, he’d been frightened for his very soul. Now with the wisdom of experience and time, he knew the monsters for what they were. Demons that plagued Coronnan and made magicians their slaves.
Myrilandel was their leader. ’Twas her face he’d seen surrounded by a cloud of pale, almost colorless hair in those smoke demons. She had taken human form, but he knew her and his lust for her could be countered only by cleansing fire.
Moncriith saw her standing next to Nimbulan, slim and beautiful, with hair as pale as moonlight. Her beauty and feigned innocence had been designed to capture men’s hearts. ’Twas Myrilandel’s demonic influence that caused Magretha to betray Moncriith with other men—his own father. ’Twas Myrilandel’s demonic spirit that had driven his anger and hurt at the betrayal into a killing r
age. But for her, he would have run away from Magretha and his father. Myrilandel had driven him to use magic to murder them.
But the demon had pulled Magretha from the flaming hut, leaving Moncriith’s father to die a terrible death. Myrilandel must suffer the same death by fire. Magretha had. He’d finally tracked her down and consigned her to holy fire. Now it was Myrilandel’s turn. She was to blame. She had to be the cause of all his grief. Myrilandel had tempted him. Forced him. Betrayed him. . . . He couldn’t have done those terrible things to his own father. He wouldn’t. . . .
But he had.
“No more false memories!” He held his head in both hands, driving away the guilt and self-doubt the sight of Myrilandel always brought to him.
He held his breath. If demons took command of his body and mind, he’d lose control of his grand plan for today and tomorrow and a hundred tomorrows. The Stargods had given him a vision. The temple elders were in error.
His eyes crossed and his vision blurred. He blinked rapidly, clearing them of the poisonous smoke. The dragons in the sky multiplied before his eyes, splitting into dozens of small demons that dove straight for his face, talons extended. The colored spines and wing veins blackened. The smaller demons opened their mouths, fangs dripping poison into his eyes.
Weird coils of numbness spread from his lungs to his fingers to his knees and back to his heart. Instinctively, he gulped air. More of the poisonous smoke poured into his lungs. The demons of his hallucination tore at his eyes and lungs, rending his flesh into bloody strips. Everywhere they touched him turned to ice.
He choked and spat. Not enough air! He clawed at his throat and chest to rid him of the things that wrapped cold fingers around his heart and lungs, squeezing. Squeezing the life and the magic from him.
He drew his pain deeper into his body, letting it sharpen his senses and fuel his inborn magic talent. With a mighty effort he drew a spiral with his finger, starting at his mouth and expanding outward. Glowing lines of red magic followed the path of his finger. He willed the magic to draw the killing smoke from his lungs. Two tiny puffs of gray mist exited his body with his next breath.
The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II Page 36
