The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

by Irene Radford

  He sat heavily in his chair, stunned. Myrilandel, his beloved wife, could not gather dragon magic.

  “What about the purple dragon?” Nimbulan grasped at the only possibility that presented itself. “Anyone can gather magic from a purple-tip.”

  “But there is only one purple-tip in all of Kardia Hodos,” Hanic said. “I understand one must be in physical contact with it to work magic. It cannot be everywhere and I understand it prefers the form of a flywacket, which doesn’t give off magic to be gathered. No. Our definition of dragon magic doesn’t include the purple dragon. Exile or death for all solitary magicians.” Baathalzan resumed his seat with dignified satisfaction that his primary concern had been addressed.

  They were right. For the good of all Coronnan, solitary magicians had to be exiled.

  Nimbulan stared into nothingness. Myri, oh, Myri, what will I do without you?

  “I now pronounce you husband and wife, mated together for the duration of your lifetimes. The Stargods acknowledge your vows of faithfulness. Let the people respect them as well.” A priest robed in bright red recited the formula of the marriage blessing in some haste. He looked at the long caravan forming outside the School for Magicians before sealing the ceremony with the cross of the Stargods.

  All around them steeds stamped, people shouted, sledges groaned with the weight piled high upon them. In the midst of the frenzy, the priest presided over a hasty union. He turned and left the couple without waiting for them to seal their vows with the traditional kiss.

  Emptiness washed over Myri. This should be the happiest day of her life, not the saddest.

  “Come with us now, Nimbulan. Please,” Myri pleaded with Nimbulan one last time, though she knew he must stay in the city. He must help rebuild Coronnan and the create the Commune. Her brother, King Quinnault, couldn’t do it all.

  She would survive without Nimbulan. She wasn’t sure the new Commune, king, and Council of Provinces would.

  “The clearing will protect you, Myri, until I can come to you. I moved some lines on the new map so that you will technically be outside the boundaries of Coronnan. I will come to you as soon as I can. I just wish I could find a safe haven for you closer to the city,” he said while clutching her hands within his own. He searched her face as if etching the image into his memory.

  “I know you will come, my love.” She turned her head away to hide her tears. And her guilt. She hadn’t told him about the baby. She needed to know for certain that she wouldn’t miscarry, as so many witchwomen did. Shayla had told Lyman—he was almost as much a dragon as Myri—but no one had told Nimbulan. At first she waited for the right moment. A quiet time when they wouldn’t be interrupted. Then the Council had issued their edict of exile.

  To tell him now would divide his loyalties even further between herself and the new government. His dream of peace was too important to all of Coronnan. She couldn’t do it now. She would wait until she knew for sure. Then, when he joined her in the clearing, she would tell him. This parting was hard enough on both of them.

  Her chin quivered and the ache in her chest choked her breathing.

  “Don’t hide your tears, Myri.” Nimbulan captured her chin between two gentle fingers. “I love you. I’ll come soon. Kalen will keep you company.” He kissed her tears as they fell.

  Stuuvart had blithely abandoned all claim to Kalen as his child as soon as the edict of exile was made known. Guillia had hugged the girl fiercely in a tearful embrace all through the brief wedding. Now she reluctantly let her daughter lift her pack onto the sledge. Myri tried to summon anger at the absent Stuuvart to replace her lonely suffering at parting from Nimbulan.

  “I’m going with them, too,” Powwell announced, marching up to the last sledge in the long caravan headed south and east. He carried a simple pack bulging with books and clothes and food.

  “Your place is here, Powwell,” Myri said. “The Commune needs every magician who can gather dragon magic to help enforce the laws.”

  “Stupid laws. I won’t be part of a country that forces you and Kalen into exile. I’m coming with you.” He set his chin in a stubborn attitude that wouldn’t budge. “You’ll need a man to help with the heavy work.”

  “Then I charge you, Powwell, to look after Myri and Kalen, and to protect them. You must perfect the summons spell quickly so that you can keep in contact with me,” Nimbulan ordered the boy. “You are nearly fourteen now. A man, and I trust you.”

  “Yeah, sure.” Powwell jumped on the back of the sledge next to Kalen. He crossed his arms and glared at his former master.

  “I wish it could be otherwise, Myrilandel. I wish we could be together.” Nimbulan held her close until their hearts beat in rhythm.

  “As do I, my love. I wish we could be together always, in our own home, with our family.” She turned her face and kissed him long and full, putting all of her regret and sorrow into her embrace. She tasted salty tears. His or hers, it didn’t matter. If only she could cling to him a little longer, hold his warmth a little closer, make love with him one more time. . . .

  Shouts and whistles to sledge steeds, and a general shift of people forward, signaled the beginning of the long journey. Traders and exiles alike settled into the line of march.

  Myri flung her arms around Nimbulan’s neck, holding him as long as possible. Gentle hands pulled them apart. She slid her hand down his arm, caressing his fingers, cherishing his touch for as long as possible.

  “I love you, Myrilandel. I’ll come to you soon,” Nimbulan whispered.

  “I love you, Nimbulan.” The silver umbilical that bound them together stretched thin but did not break.

  Epilogue

  (The Covenant is broken!) Shayla’s last communication reverberated through Nimbulan’s ears three days after she and her nimbus had departed abruptly from Coronnan City.

  At the same moment as she spoke, Nimbulan’s contact with Myrilandel through the silver umbilical snapped.

  Now he trudged up the path from the village to the clearing. Footsore and saddlesore, he rested briefly against the split boulder with an everblue tree growing out of the center of it. He’d ridden from Coronnan City at a breakneck pace. Five steeds had floundered under his prodding to move ever faster. The last of the beasts had gone lame two leagues outside the village.

  The magical barrier that protected the clearing should be within sight—if the barrier were visible. Winter mud slowed his passage along the trail. More than half a year had passed since he’d said farewell to his wife. Too long. He’d allowed the concerns of the king and Commune to chain him to the capital for too long.

  Hastily he finger-combed his hair, trying to make his weary, mud-splattered appearance a little more presentable. Regretting even that delay, he stepped up to the barrier, closed his eyes, and pushed with his left hand. He met no resistance.

  Puzzled, he stepped across what should be the threshold of the clearing. No tingle of magical energy. No resistance. Nothing.

  He looked through the screening trees. Nothing had changed from the first time he’d seen the place. The thatch on the one room hut sagged in the middle, the door still hung slightly crooked, the kitchen garden was overgrown with weeds. Two flusterhens scratched at the center of the clearing in search of food.

  “Myri?” he called. His voice echoed through the emptiness of the clearing. “Myrilandel,” he shouted louder with both voice and magic.

  No answer.

  (The Covenant is broken!) The dragons were gone. He was no longer connected to his wife.

  And yet the dragon magic persisted in the air. What was happening?

  Why, oh why, hadn’t he made sure Powwell or Kalen could work the summons spell properly before they left Coronnan City? Neither of them had perfected the spell in the last three seasons. Myri had never been able to learn it. Communication had been sporadic and incomplete at best.

  “Myri!” he cried, desperate to see her again and know she was safe. “Myri, Kalen, Powwell. Somebody please answ
er me.”

  Nothing.

  “Where are you? You can’t be gone.” He dashed into the hut, thrusting the door open so hard he nearly jerked it off its frame. “Myrilandel!”

  Empty. The hut was as empty as the clearing, with no sign it had been inhabited at all in the last year.

  “Where are you?” he whispered into the emptiness. “Were you ever here?”

  Loneliness landed on his shoulders like a lead-weighted cloak. A headache pounded in his temples. He tried to remember her face, her tall, slim body and fine hair so pale it looked like colorless dragon fur. The purple shadows under her fingernails. The way she buried her face into the fur of her black flywacket.

  All the images faded from his mind. He forced them back, holding on to them with the desperation of a deserted lover. The memories slipped through his grasp as if they’d never been.

  His heart ached as tears choked him.

  “Were you real, Myrilandel, or just a dragon dream?”

  THE LAST BATTLEMAGE

  For Karen, the logical one.

  For Linda, the flamboyant one.

  For TJ, the action one.

  Thanks. I couldn’t write without you.

  And to the patient staff of Applebees, thank you for putting up with the critique group from outer space, who never order anything but half-price snacks, and monopolize too much room for hours on end. At least we tip well.

  Chapter 1

  “Another moon before your babe is ready,” Karry announced to Myrilandel, holding her hands expertly on the younger woman’s swelling abdomen.

  “I’ve midwifed enough babies, you’d think I’d know how my own baby progressed,” Myri replied to her friend. She rubbed the lower portion of her enormous belly where the baby kicked vigorously. While she looked at her ungainly bulk, she checked the magical cord that bound her to her husband, no matter how far away he was from her.

  A pulse beat against her fingertips. Nimbulan’s life force remained steady and true. She had never been able to delve deeper into the meaning of the unique phenomenon.

  Amaranth, her familiar, mewed at her feet. He rubbed his black cat head against her hand as if adding his caresses to the unborn child. He kept his falcon wings carefully hidden beneath protective folds of skin and fur. No sense advertising that he was a rare and magical flywacket.

  She’d never been separated from Amaranth, not since they’d been born twin purple-tipped dragons twenty years ago. Dragon lore demanded that only one purple-tip could be alive at any time. Either Amaranth or Myrilandel had to take another form or die. Myrilandel had chosen a human body. Amaranth had transformed into his flywacket form to remain near her throughout her life. She had seen him grow into his true dragon form only once.

  Myri scratched his ears. “Sorry, there’s no room for you in my lap, Amaranth. Not that I have any lap left.”

  “Mbrrrt,” Amaranth purred loudly, in rhythm with Myri’s stroking of her belly.

  “At the first sign of labor, you send that boy you adopted to me. I’ll come and help,” Karry ordered, just as she ordered everyone in the small fishing village.

  “I’m ready for this baby now,” Myri laughed. “I want my magic talents back, so I can help in the village again. I need to repay you for all your kindness to me. I’ve never had a home like this before,” Myri whispered. If only Nimbulan would return from the capital city, her family would be complete. She had many friends in the village now, but they weren’t family.

  “What do them dragons of yours tell you about the babe?” Karry asked, setting her simple home to rights.

  “Shayla only tells me it’s a girl.” Myri smiled every time she thought of her dragon family.

  Her only family, other than the two children she had adopted. And Amaranth.

  She refused to dwell on depressing thoughts about her human brother, King Quinnault de Draconis, who had exiled her, reluctantly, for her rogue magic talent. A talent that had decreased as her pregnancy increased. Her husband, Nimbulan, had remained in the capital serving her brother as adviser and Senior Magician. She might have been born a dragon, but in this body she couldn’t gather dragon magic—no female could. Without the ability to work in concert with other magicians through dragon magic, she had to accept exile along with every other solitary magician.

  Nimbulan would return to her soon. He’d promised.

  (Danger!) a dragon voice screamed into Myri’s mind. (Danger to you and the younglings!)

  Raised voices and pounding feet filled the village square.

  Amaranth leaped to the doorway, back arched, fur standing up. The tips of his wings poked free of their protective skin folds in his agitation.

  “Raiders!” Powwell, her adopted son, shouted.

  Kalen, Powwell’s half-sister, dashed inside. “Myri, come, the storage sheds are burning. We have to flee, now! They are coming closer.” She tugged anxiously at Myri’s arm.

  “Who?” Myri barely had time to ask as Kalen pulled and Karry pushed her outside.

  In the open space around the Equinox Pylon, dozens of villagers rushed madly from hut to hut. Smoke filled the air with an aura of menace.

  “This way,” Powwell half-dragged, half-carried Myri’s bulky body toward the path leading up into the hills and their magically protected clearing. Amaranth kept close by her side, refusing to fly until she was safe.

  (Not that way!) Shayla announced into Myri’s head. (Evil men await you near your clearing.)

  The carpenter’s hut at the edge of the village exploded in flames. Three people, faces blackened with smoke, ran out the door, coughing. They beat uselessly at the bright green fire with blankets and cloaks.

  The greedy flames ate at the dry timbers and thatch. The entire autumn had been unusually dry and bright. Very little rain had soaked into the homes to protect them from the flaming arrows that sped through the air. A fisherman’s home, near the cliff path to the beach, caught fire with the next barrage of arrows.

  Powwell tried a magic spell to douse the fire. The flames shot higher, feeding off his magical energy as well as the thatch.

  Smoke filled Myri’s lungs. She nearly doubled over from coughing. Moisture streamed from her eyes. Cold autumnal air chilled her skin.

  A tiny cramp in her belly sent panic and new energy shooting through her veins. The baby wasn’t ready to be born yet.

  Amaranth circled her ankles, mewing anxiously. She almost tripped over him. Her senses distorted. She needed a moment to grab a hold on up and down, right and left, safety and danger.

  Black-clad men appeared at the edge of the village. A dozen or more. They carried torches, swords, and bows with full quivers on their backs. Something seemed familiar about them—brightly colored vests and kerchiefs covered in silver embroidery—Rovers!

  “Into the forest. They can’t find us in the trees!” Karry yelled.

  (To the trees. I will guide you to safety,) the dragon said. Amaranth agreed.

  Instantly, Myri’s vision spun upward. From the perspective of a dragon flying overhead, she saw the villagers running aimlessly in all directions. Some of the humans ran afoul of the black-clad men who approached from the north with fire and sword. Others disappeared amid the towering trees that spread up the hills to the south of the village.

  She forced control over her double perspective. She’d done this with Amaranth many times. Part of her consciousness had to remain anchored to her body so she could flee from the danger.

  Myri’s empathic senses roared into life after many moons of dormancy. She stopped her running steps to absorb the full impact of her talent. The essence of every life around her slammed into her consciousness. She needed time to sort through them, to know who was friendly, who intended harm, who needed help, who could help.

  Suddenly she knew that the lives who hid among the towering trees awaited the villagers with clubs and knives.

  “We’ve got to hide.” Powwell slipped his adolescent arm about her waist, guiding her. She sensed his magical
armor dissolving as fast as he erected it. What magician led these raiders? She didn’t think the Rover chieftain powerful enough to interfere with Powwell’s magic.

  “No, it’s a trap! There are more Rovers in the forest.” Myri reeled, not knowing where to turn.

  Shayla circled the gathering of humans, screeching her distress. She spurted flame at the edges of the milling villagers, then withdrew it. She endangered the innocent along with the raiders.

  “Yiheee!” a black-clad man screeched, running toward Myri with club raised.

  “I need her alive,” another voice shouted. “Catch the witchwoman and her familiar alive.” A voice she recognized. She should have known he was behind the raid the moment she recognized the attackers as Rovers.

  “No,” she moaned. “Not him.”

  Amaranth screeched and launched into the air. He extended his talons to rake Piedro, the man with a club. He threw his hands over his face, ducking beneath the flywacket’s assault.

  Amaranth raked the man’s scalp and circled back for a new assault. Piedro came up swinging his club, blood from his scalp dripping into his eyes. He caught Amaranth on the tip of his wing.

  “No!” Myri tried to rush to her familiar. Powwell dragged her back into the mass of villagers fleeing into the forest.

  The flywacket faltered. Out of nowhere, a fishing net flew through the air, trapping him. He fell heavily to the ground, thrashing and hissing. He bit the knotted ropes that covered him.

  He stretched and paled. His black fur shed light. His wings grew larger, forming wicked hooks on the tips and elbows. The net parted at one knot, then a second.

  “Transform, Amaranth. Transform into a dragon,” Myri cried with relief. She needed to stay and make sure he was safe. Powwell pulled her away, toward the trees.

  An old woman flung herself over Amaranth’s struggling body. She enfolded the enraged flywacket in a thick canvas sack, cutting off his access to sunlight. Without light, he couldn’t transform into his dragon body. He had only cat claws and teeth to fight the net and the sack.