The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

by Irene Radford

  Green trees materialized before their eyes. Trees and rough grass and round mountain peaks behind. More slowly, the outline of a shimmering dragon flickered into view.

  “Go, go, go,” Powwell shouted. He grabbed for Kalen’s hand to pull her through the gate with him.

  “Wiggles!” she screamed and pulled free of Powwell’s grasp. She chased after her familiar as it scampered into the main cavern.

  “Kalen!”

  “No, Powwell, we have to leave, now. She made the choice.” Nimbulan grabbed his arm. His teacher dragged him away from the cavern opening. Kalen disappeared into the darkness beyond.

  “Kalen,” Powwell called. “I can’t leave you.”

  “You must. We have to escape now. She made her choice,” Nimbulan insisted. “She’ll follow us when she can. If she wants to. She’s a survivor.”

  The constant whining coming from Old Bertha raised in pitch to the intensity of a dragon scream. “Kalen, get away from the machine!” Powwell yelled.

  Metal screamed against metal as pieces ripped free. A single boom and thud that shook the ground beneath them. Red fire, brighter than the pit, blazed within the cavern. A fissure opened in the wall, running horizontally from the pit into the cavern. Lava glowed behind it. Then another explosion was followed by the screams of dying men.

  Blazing lava flared from the pit through the vision of the gate’s destination.

  Nimbulan yanked him harder. Powwell felt as if he were flying. . . .

  “Kalen,” he sobbed.

  The hot wind followed him, a sure signal that the gate closed behind him. Cool green caressed his eyes while a fresh breeze smelling of Tambootie ruffled his hair.

  Chapter 30

  Nimbulan shook his head and blinked his eyes several times. The Kardia didn’t boil and move beneath his feet. Fresh green grass, trees, and blue skies replaced the sense-destroying landscape of the gray tunnels beneath Hanassa. Cool air caressed his face. Air that smelled of life and dragons. Instinctively he gathered dragon magic. Like taking a deep gulp of air after holding his breath underwater for a long, long time. How many days ago had he nearly drowned in Televarn’s Water spell? Two? Three? It seemed a lifetime. How long ago since he’d filled himself full of dragon magic without fear of depletion?

  “We’re free of Hanassa,” he said. “But I don’t know where we are.”

  He let Powwell collapse against the ground, stunned and crying over the loss of Kalen. The boy needed some time alone. Nimbulan turned his back to give Powwell privacy while he checked his companions and indulged in his own grief over Rollett. If only he’d thought to keep his journeyman close beside him . . . If only he’d tried a little harder to reach the boy.

  A journeyman must travel alone to complete his quest.

  Can you hear me, Rollett? he broadcast the message far and wide in all directions. He could focus it better if he knew where he was.

  Nothing responded to his call. S’murghit, Rollett, answer me!

  Still nothing.

  He decided to concentrate on those he could help and guide. He trusted Rollett in many things. He’d just have to trust him to take care of himself. But he ached to return for the boy. Young man. He’s a man now. On his own.

  The dragongate remained firmly closed.

  Yaala plopped down beside Powwell, not intruding on his grief, just there if he needed her. A valuable friend. Maybe more, in time.

  Rollett had been a valuable friend as well as student and assistant. Almost more a son than Powwell whom he and Myri had adopted but he’d never had the chance to get to know.

  Myri stood beside Nimbulan, a small smile spreading across her face. “I’m free!” she whispered, as if she couldn’t quite believe it. “My baby is safe.”

  Nimbulan reached over and brought her tight against his side, where she belonged. She snuggled into him, filling the emptiness he’d lived with for too long. He lowered his head to kiss her once more. He’d never get enough of her. He pushed aside thoughts of Rollett, so he could appreciate the warmth of his wife.

  Amaranth fretted once more and Myri lifted her from the sling onto her shoulder. “I think she’s hungry. It has been a long night.”

  “It has indeed,” Nimbulan replied. The first glow of false dawn shimmered on the frosty hilltops. A bird chirped a sleepy query to the sun. At least it wasn’t raining or snowing. “I’m hungry, too. We need to find food and shelter. Warm clothes. S’murghit, where are we?”

  “Uh, would you care to greet our host?” Scarface stammered through clenched teeth.

  Nimbulan looked ahead of them to the emerging outline of a nearly transparent dragon. The growing light reflected off of wing veins and spinal horns in an iridescent display of all color/no color.

  “Good morning, Shayla,” he greeted the only female dragon in the nimbus. “I have rescued Myrilandel. I hope this restores the Covenant between humans and dragons. Can you tell us where we are, perhaps take us back to Coronnan City?”

  The dragon dipped her head.

  “She returns your greeting,” Myri said. She cocked her head as if listening intently. “She wants to meet the baby. She doesn’t say anything about where we are or taking us away.” Myri separated herself from Nimbulan’s embrace and walked over to the crouching beast.

  Shayla stretched her neck to peer at the infant clutched in Myri’s arms.

  “Do you trust that monster with your child?” Scarface took a step forward, alarm radiating from his body. He clenched and flexed his fingers as if ready to launch a defensive spell.

  “Of course I trust her. No dragon would deliberately hurt a human, especially children. They adore children.”

  “If you say so.” Scarface’s expression betrayed his inborn fear as well as his attempts to master it. “Damn cold out here. We need help.”

  Maia didn’t look reassured at all. She backed up until she stood within the arched shadow cast by a rock outcropping. Her hands beat at empty air as if pounding on a firmly closed door.

  The dragongate didn’t open.

  “So that’s what Yaassima wants to be—wanted me to be,” Yaala whispered. She turned her eyes away from the beautiful dragon to look at the grass.

  “Yaassima didn’t understand true dragonkind,” Powwell replied, still wrapped in his grief. “She created a myth in her own mind and then tried to change reality to fit her version. She failed.” He kept looking to the place where they had emerged from the pit. The shifting vortex of time and distance remained closed.

  Nimbulan knew he’d have to go with Powwell if the boy decided to return for Kalen. But he had to get back to the capital, too. He had to take care of Myri and her baby. He probably owed something to Maia as well. She had borne him a son, though the baby had died. His responsibilities weighed heavily on him at the moment.

  Rollett would understand. Wouldn’t he?

  Ah, Rollett, what have I done to you?

  “Ask Shayla again where we are, Myri. I need to get back to Coronnan City and warn Quinnault of the impending invasion,” Nimbulan said. He kept looking at the round tops of the hills that stretched into the distance. “You might ask when we are as well. Those hills look much older than the sharper peaks of Coronnan.”

  “I don’t think I want to hear this.” Scarface held his temples and sat heavily on a nearby rock. He began gathering loose sticks and branches, piling them into a fire stack.

  A mental chuckle invaded Nimbulan’s mind. The humor behind the brief communication was definitely draconic in nature.

  “Shayla says we are in the time you expected to be. The dragongate folds distance not time.” Myri straightened her neck and peered at the dragon with a touch of concern creasing her brow.

  “Something calls her. She must leave.” Myri looked around, rapidly shifting her focus from the nearby trees and grass to the far hills.

  Shayla bunched her shoulder muscles and spread her wings in preparation for flight.

  “Where are we?” Nimbulan asked hurriedly.
His transportation was leaving. “We have to get back to the capital! We need warm clothing and food.”

  “Shayla says to beware of the massing men in the valley below.” Myri’s words were nearly drowned out by the downthrust of mighty wings.

  “Massing men?” The sense of many lives pressed against his mind. “Hundreds, no thousands of men,” he gasped.

  “Angry men,” Myri echoed his tone of concern.

  “The army of mercenaries, preparing to invade Coronnan from SeLenicca,” Scarface added. “We’re in one of the mountain passes between the two countries.”

  “Mercenary patrols there, to the west with arrows nocked and swords drawn,” Yaala gasped, jumping up and pointing.

  “The gate is opening,” Powwell shouted. “We can go back for Kalen.” He jumped up and pointed to the rapidly shifting colors within an arch shaped shadow between boulder and tree.

  “No!” Nimbulan stared at the partially opened portal. Moncriith is there waiting for us.”

  A hazy vision of the people behind the gate kept shifting out of focus, never solidifying. Blood pounded in his ears at the sight of Moncriith pushing Yaassima and Kalen into the pit. Huge tongues of lava reached up greedily to enfold them.

  “Kalen!” Powwell rushed forward to catch the little girl.

  The gate dissolved before he reached them.

  Chapter 31

  Myri ran downhill as fast as she could. Nimbulan carried Amaranth. Yaala dragged a reluctant Powwell away from the dragongate.

  Soldiers followed them, close on their heels. She sensed more men running beside them. Still others moved to cut off their retreat.

  Nimbulan and the others stopped short before the barricade of soldiers that appeared in front of them without warning.

  “Don’t move.” One of the mercenaries stepped forward from the dozen men who aimed weapons at the party of refugees. He held his arm straight out in front of him.

  A witchsniffer. He’d followed the scent of dragon magic to capture Myri and Nimbulan and the others.

  Myri looked from the drawn swords to the eyes of the soldiers holding the weapons. Their fanatical hate nearly blistered her empathic talent. “They are Moncriith’s men,” she whispered to Nimbulan, choking back her fear of the Bloodmage who had stalked her nearly all her life.

  She wouldn’t allow her fear to keep her from protecting her children and her husband.

  “Moncriith?” Yaala mouthed the name without sound. “He helped persuade Yaassima to murder my father and exile me. He always meant to take over Hanassa. Now that he has killed the Kaalipha, he can.” Her words were soft and bitter.

  “Be quiet. Bind them.” The mercenary leader gestured for his men to come forward. They hesitated and shuffled their feet.

  “We have to get out of here, Nimbulan,” Scarface said under his breath. “Moncriith is smart enough to follow us through the gate.” He deepened his breathing in preparation of a spell.

  “Not yet. We have to know the battle plans,” Nimbulan said harshly. “Then we have to relay the information to King Quinnault. We can’t fight King Lorriin if we don’t know his tactics.”

  Myri gripped his arm with both hands. Her long fingers clenched and released spasmodically. The swordsmen fumbled with ropes that hung from their belts rather than approach magicians.

  She absorbed and understood their hesitation. Moncriith wasn’t there to protect them from magic they didn’t understand. The archers wavered in their aim a tiny fraction. Their uncertainty could make them release their arrows without thought or true aim. She retrieved Amaranth from her husband. The baby’s best protection lay in keeping Nimbulan’s hands free to work magic.

  Maia tried to slink behind the nearest tree. Another soldier with nocked arrow met her at the side of the tree trunk. She backed up, joining the troop of refugees.

  Myri deliberately gathered the soldiers’ malice and compounded it with uncertainty. When the negative emotions churned in a heavy knot in her gut, she swallowed her misgivings and broadcast them back on a tight line to the aggressors. Her talent rebelled, bouncing back to her, compounding the negative emotions within her. She wanted to whimper and cower behind any cover she could find.

  She had never used her empathy for anything but healing. This attack was against everything she had ever hoped to achieve with magic.

  To protect her children, she swallowed the rebounded emotions and added fear to her broadcast.

  At the first sign of wavering arrows, she turned, putting the baby between herself and her husband.

  “Demon magicians!” The lead soldier hissed through his teeth. His still outstretched arm shook slightly. “Lord Moncriith ordered death to all demons.” He raised his arm to signal the archers to fire.

  “Wait!” Nimbulan commanded.

  Myri had heard that tone of voice before—on the battlefield when an entire army and the full Commune of Magicians looked to him for leadership. She dropped her replay of bad emotions. The lead soldier’s hand wavered in the up position. Myri held her breath.

  “When I left Hanassa, Moncriith had just hired my band of mercenaries to join your ranks,” Nimbulan said. “Kill us and you risk the wrath of your leader.”

  Myri peered closely at Nimbulan’s face and aura. Untruth flickered around the edges of his statement. Not a total lie, but not the truth either.

  “Lord Moncriith don’t hire no magicians,” the soldier averred. “And where’s your band if you be a true captain? Women and babies can’t fight a war.”

  “We merely seek shelter for our families before we join our band.” Nimbulan dismissed the man’s misgivings.

  The witchsniffer didn’t look as if he believed Nimbulan.

  “What makes you think we are magicians?” Nimbulan asked in a reassuring tone. “We carry no staffs, nor do we wear the blue robes of the Commune, Lord Moncriith’s true enemy.” He held his arms out to his sides, palms out, as if inviting trust. At the same time, his arms came in front of Myri, urging her to seek protection behind him. His fingers curved slightly over his palms, he prepared a spell with that habitual gesture.

  Myri sensed no ley lines in the immediate vicinity. Had Nimbulan gathered enough dragon magic when Shayla was here to neutralize the dozen or more men? She looked at Powwell and Scarface. They also prepared to defend with magic but waited for Nimbulan’s lead.

  Yaala and Maia huddled together as far away from the magicians and the mercenaries as they could. Carefully they inched toward a tree that might give them cover. If the mercenaries didn’t stop them.

  “You still haven’t told us where to find your band of mercenaries. If you truly have one, magician,” the sergeant accused. He looked back down the path he had recently traversed. No reinforcements seemed to be approaching.

  “You didn’t answer my question, sergeant. Nor did you salute a captain. Insubordination. I could have you flogged.” Nimbulan’s voice turned iron cold. Myri shivered from the implied menace behind his words.

  “I smell the demons in you.” The sergeant looked right and left hastily, betraying his nervousness.

  “Moncriith makes witchsniffers sergeants over men with better leadership qualities,” Scarface mumbled under his breath. Then louder he said, “Hanassa is rife with incompetents like him stumbling over their own feet, changing orders almost as fast as they make them. Any true mercenaries Moncriith hires will be demoralized and in disarray by the time they get here.”

  “I am a good leader!” the soldier protested. “I earned my rank.”

  “Did you truly?” Nimbulan pushed doubt into his words. He lifted his hands, still palm outward, still holding his magic tightly bound.

  Beside him, Scarface did the same with a gesture of fluttery finger weaving. Powwell eased himself to stand next to Nimbulan. The toe of his boot touched the Senior Magician’s foot. Their auras combined as did their magic.

  Myri sensed the doubt growing in the archers. Their bow strings lost a little of their tension. The men holding swords
dropped the tips a fraction.

  Nimbulan and Powwell built upon the results of Myri’s emotional attack.

  Amaranth opened her eyes, focusing on her mother’s face. The baby’s emotions came through to her clearly. She feared the death of the men.

  Your daughter is an empath! Myri screamed mentally to her husband. Kill them and you will kill her. Carefully, she clamped down on her own talent. She had the closest ties to the baby. Amaranth would know everything she felt, everything she absorbed, everything she broadcast—for good or for evil. All of the turmoil and chaos of the past night must have awakened Amaranth’s talent early.

  What of you, beloved? Nimbulan asked. The silver cord between them raced with their combined heartbeats.

  I will survive. I have control over my talent now. The deaths of these men will hurt me, but not slay me. Our daughter will follow them to the void if they die violently in her presence.

  “What do you mean to do with us?” Nimbulan asked evenly to the soldiers who still confronted him. “You’re renegades, out to kill all strangers rather than save your energy and your weapons for the campaign you were hired to join.”

  Before the mercenaries could react, Nimbulan pointed the index fingers of both hands at the men. Faint blue sparks sizzled along his skin, shooting out of his fingernails. He directed the compulsion magic to engulf the mercenaries in a cloud of glowing blue sparkles. The cloud spread over the entire patrol.

  He couldn’t have commanded that much magic on his own. He nodded his thanks to Powwell for the boost to his magic.

  Scarface aided him with his own spell, binding the men in place while Nimbulan questioned them.

  The sergeant stared straight ahead, eyes glassy, barely breathing. His men froze in place. The blue sparks caught their expressions of horror.

  Amaranth wailed as if stuck with a pin. Myri shied away from the freezing pain that bound the men’s muscles in knots.