Dragon Nimbus Novels: Vol II, The

by Irene Radford

  A path of sorts seemed to lead him to a doorway in the center of the south wall of the building. His next step sent him flying backward into a bed of thistles. The plants stung his hands and neck and poked through his clothes. His staff lay ten feet in front of him.

  What kind of force was strong enough to separate him from his staff?

  “Nimbulan!” Quinnault helped him up with strong hands beneath Nimbulan’s shoulders. He brushed some of the excess mud from Nimbulan’s already filthy clothes. “What happened?”

  “I don’t . . . don’t know.” Nimbulan clutched his temple to keep the world from spinning away from him. His free hand came up, palm open and receptive to power of any sort. “One minute I was on solid ground, the next I was flying through the air.”

  (You trespassed where your kind are not welcome.) A shadowy mist rose up between the two men and the monastery.

  “Who are you?” Quinnault addressed the air. “I am lord of this island. This is my land, and I may walk where I will! Show yourself to your rightful lord.”

  (I recognize no lord. I am the guardian of the beginning place.) The mist, crowded with gray and purple shadows, shaped itself into the vague outline of a man, twice the height of a normal man. (I guard these hallowed grounds against all who would misuse the power that begins and ends here. The Stargods gifted this power to the peoples of Kardia Hodos for the good of all. I guard against misuse—intentional or accidental. Begone!)

  A circling wind wrapped around and around Nimbulan and Quinnault de Tanos, driving them back the way they had come. Back toward the raging river that would drown them.

  Nimbulan fought the wind with an image of calm within his mind. The tornado battered his defenses. He dug in his heels. The shadowy spirit threw slates from the roof at him. He enclosed himself and de Tanos in his strongest magical armor.

  Gradually the assault lessened. Nimbulan sensed that the guardian of the monastery merely gathered his energy for his next attempt to rid the island of the magician and the lord.

  Nimbulan pulled bits of verse together for his plea, as if they were a spell. Since this creature seemed to be made of magic, he’d address him as magic.

  “Peace we seek,

  here and now,

  for strong or meek.

  Peace we wish,

  for all to kiss.”

  The spirit paused. The shape shifted enough to suggest a man tilting his head in consideration. Did he recognize the human tradition of a kiss of peace to seal a treaty and forgive past battles?

  “We come in peace. I seek a way to bring honor and good back into the use of magic,” he shouted to the four cardinal directions and four elements. In his mind he saw them bound in harmony with all humanity, mage and mundane alike. His staff returned to his hand, passing through the guardian.

  The wind slackened. (How can I believe you?) The spirit drifted and reformed directly in front of Nimbulan. Some of the shadows lightened, no longer carrying the menace of darkness. (You directed this honorable lord to clear a path by magic when he need only look with his eyes for an existing path.)

  “I sought only to test his powers, as I must test many things before I find a way to end the wars that destroy Coronnan.”

  (You seek peace when all around you know nothing but war?)

  “We seek peace. We mean no harm to you or the power you guard so diligently. We ask only for time to experiment with the power—to find a way for magicians to band together in neutrality. Only then can we make honor, ethics, and education our priority rather than war.”

  “Mewlppp! Mewlppp!” A winged form circled their heads.

  “What a strange cry. Too large and bulky to be a bird. So black it seems to absorb light.” Quinnault shaded his eyes with one hand as he looked up. “What creature have you sent to us, Spirit?”

  (You will be tested first. Only those found worthy may use the beginning place.)

  The beast and the mist collided and burst into a column of fire. The flames spun in place, then sped directly toward Nimbulan.

  Chapter 8

  The column of flame engulfed Nimbulan in an explosion of magical energy. Blue sparks invaded his eyes. Each one carried a memory of minor misdeeds, lies, and careless words that had wounded another.

  He remembered a time when he and Ackerly had ventured into a village marketplace. Druulin had forbidden them to leave the tower until they had finished a long and boring series of chores. But they had slipped away early anyway.

  A band of Rovers was reputed to be entertaining the farmers and shepherds. The Rovers had brought their racing steeds as well. Every man with a steed had met the challenge of a series of races. Betting ran heavily on the local steeds, known winners.

  “We can make some money, Lan. Then we can buy some real food at the market,” Ackerly urged his friend.

  “I don’t know, Acker. Betting an illusory coin on a race that we fix . . .” Nimbulan hesitated.

  “What’s the harm in making a plow steed feel heavy and weary so he won’t run? I tell you it’s a sure thing.”

  Just then, Nimbulan’s stomach had growled, reminding them both that Druulin had forgotten to buy flour for bread. None of the apprentices had had breakfast.

  “We might make enough to buy a warm cloak or an extra blanket, too,” Ackerly said. “It will be easy, Lan. No one will know.”

  “If it’s so easy, why don’t you do it, Acker?” Nimbulan wanted the reassurance of his friend’s participation. He was only ten and Ackerly was two years older, two years wiser and more experienced, though they were both new to Druulin’s tower. Ackerly should be able to carry out his own plans and take the consequences if anything went awry. “What if we get caught?”

  “We won’t be caught. Who can tell that you used magic? None of these mundanes have enough imagination to think we’d interfere.”

  In the middle of the race, the plow steed suddenly lifted his tail and relieved the heaviness in his gut. The smelly addition to the smooth meadow brought laughter and jeers from the onlookers. The farmer beat on his steed with fists and boot heels to no avail. The steed added a long hot stream of urine to the growing pile of manure.

  The farmer spotted the two magician apprentices cheering on the Rover steed as it crossed the finish line, barely winded. He also saw the large number of coins the boys collected from disgruntled locals. He grabbed a whip from a drover and ran after the two boys. Men who had lost good money on the bet took up the hue and cry. Ackerly pocketed the coins and dodged into the brothel tent where a series of semi-outraged squeals followed the passage of intruders.

  Nimbulan didn’t have the courage to peek into the tent let alone lead a parade of angry farmers through it. He ducked behind a huge pile of jacko squash. A little orange tint to a delusion disguised him as just another ball in the display. Until the vendor tried to lift his head off his shoulders and sell him to Druulin. . . .

  He cringed inwardly with the remembrance. Other misdeeds flashed through his memory. Guilt brought tears to his eyes. But regret over Keegan’s death outweighed all of his other indiscretions combined.

  The sparks turned healing green. His onerous self-blame faded. Druulin’s inattention and cruelty had driven his apprentices to seek food and warm clothing elsewhere, any way they could. Nimbulan’s grief for his lost apprentice remained at the front of his regrets. He was responsible for the boy’s upbringing. He should have seen Keegan’s unbridled ambition and burning impatience.

  The tiny bits of flame swirled around him faster and faster, fed by his guilt. He became the center of a massive vortex of burning flame. The tremendous circular wind threatened to rend him limb from limb.

  He cried out in psychic agony.

  A wall of power slammed into his jaw and sent him flying backward.

  The vortex died as rapidly as it sprang up.

  He landed flat on his back. Pain jarred his bones the full length of his spine. His lungs expelled air in a sharp whoosh, leaving him stunned and unable to breathe.r />
  The flames dissolved into a pile of ash. No sign of the flying black creature or the shadowed spirit remained. Was it only yesterday he had watched Keegan die in the same manner? He choked back a lump that lodged in his throat.

  “What happened?” Quinnault shook his head spasmodically as if clearing his vision. “Are you all right?” He reached a hand down to assist Nimbulan to his feet.

  “I don’t know. What was that creature?”

  “The guardian or the flywacket?”

  “Flywacket?” A smile tried to break through Nimbulan’s shock and discomfort.

  “A flying black cat. What else should I call it? It sounded as if it were crying for help. ‘Mwelp.’ Help?” Quinnault looked up in the direction the creature had come from.

  “Who knows what strange cries such a creature would make.” Nimbulan weighed the sounds in his mind. “Mwelp, mwelp.” Just sounds.

  “I’m certain that the creature was crying for help, Nimbulan. The look in its eyes, just before it crashed into the guardian, was a plea for help.”

  “Of course it needed help. It had lost control of its flight path. If every joint in my body didn’t hurt, I’d laugh. Just yesterday Lord Kammeryl said that magicians cooperating was like wishing for flywackets and dragons. The men on the battlefield said they saw a dragon. You saw a flywacket here. What other miracles await us?”

  Probably just a fledgling eagle. Maybe a Khamsin eagle strayed from the desert and its parents, he told himself. Others could indulge in superstitions and omens. He had a kingdom to save and a system of magic to rewrite.

  “I don’t know if ’twas a miracle or not. I’m still dizzy from the whirlwind the guardian kicked up.” Quinnault shook his head again, pressing fingers to temples. Gradually his eyes cleared of disorientation.

  “So am I.” Nimbulan stretched each muscle, testing for injury. He prodded a few tender spots and rotated his shoulders seeking more specific information. “Nothing broken. I’m just shaken and sore. How do you fare, boy?”

  “I believe I’m unharmed—a little sore in places. But my feet are curiously numb.”

  “Mine, too, now that I think about it.” Nimbulan looked at his boots. A miasma of ash seemed to float a hand’s span above the ground in a perfect circle. Two tall men could stretch out in a line across the diameter. He scuffed at the ash. A bitter smell rose around him. He wrinkled his nose against the unnatural scent. None of the ash moved. He lifted his left foot through the ash with some effort. There residue reformed in a thick covering beneath his raised foot, almost the texture of drying clay.

  For a brief moment he caught a glimpse of bright silvery blue as his foot cleared the ash. He set his foot down again. It did not penetrate the covering. The blue winked out. He shifted his weight and lifted the other foot. Again that brief hint of many ley lines coming together. The lovely sight withdrew into hiding again as soon as his foot cleared the ash.

  As he set his second foot back down, full feeling returned to his extremities.

  Nimbulan looked around before darting out of the now gray circle. “Step clear, Quinnault. Quickly.” The ash rapidly solidified beneath him. The young lord leaped free just as the residue hardened into a thick mortar.

  “How’d we get into the courtyard of the monastery?” Nimbulan watched for any imperfection in the hardening ash. It looked like a giant piece of slate set as a single paving stone over the courtyard.

  “I think the explosion threw you here. I followed as soon as the flames let me pass.”

  Low stone buildings with sharply pitched roofs of slate surrounded them on three sides. The fourth side of the square looked upon a narrow causeway connecting the island to a larger landmass about three hundred paces distant. The River Coronnan churned through the passage, eating away at the natural bridge.

  “I must meditate on these events, my lord. But first let’s examine the buildings. The guardian seems to have left us passage to them while denying us access to the pool of ley lines.” Only then did he realize the power no longer flooded his body. He couldn’t see a trace of the spiderweb of ley lines normal to the rest of Coronnan.

  (You must find a different source of magic before peace is possible,) the guardian said deep inside Nimbulan’s mind. No other trace of the spirit remained.

  Ackerly watched a knot of common soldiers moving toward Magician’s Square within the army camp. Three uniformed men seemed to lead the growing procession of excited soldiers, officers, and camp followers. Male voices undulated upward from normal bass tones to cracking boyish squeaks. The sound beat at his ears. He pulled his magical armor around him. He might not be able to weave major battle spells, but armor was essential to anyone serving a Battlemage.

  Breathing carefully to maintain protection, he sought another spell that honed and defined the words flying around the volatile group of people. While Nimbulan and Lord Quinnault explored the river islands on some private quest, he, Ackerly, must deal with these petitioners.

  “I saw it. I swear!” A fair-haired young private raised his voice above the babble. ’Twas his voice that squeaked as it gained in volume. He probably wasn’t old enough to have his vocal cords truly settled.

  “You three been sneaking extra rations of ale from the cook’s supplies again?” a grizzled sergeant bellowed. “Heard there was a break-in at the kitchen tent this morning.”

  “We investigated the break-in! We chased the thief.” Fists on hips, a black-haired giant stopped in front of the sergeant, daring the man to doubt his word. Few men would question the man who stood head and shoulders above average soldiers. The breadth of his shoulders and diameter of his upper arms proclaimed his strength. Ackerly wondered if his mind was as muscle-bound as his body.

  The crowd flowed around the tall man and the sergeant until they met the boundary of the magicians’ enclave. They stopped between the hospital and the supply tent, unwilling to enter the area without invitation.

  Ackerly waited to see if they would go any further.

  Some of the men, more curious than brave, nudged the squeaky-voiced youngster and his slightly older companion forward. The two privates stumbled across the invisible boundary. They looked anxiously right and left. The giant joined them. All the others remained firmly on their side of the imaginary line of separation.

  For a brief moment, pride swelled in Ackerly’s chest. The other magicians might look down upon his minor talent, but these people respected him for having any talent at all!

  “What did you see that brings so many to the private enclave of magicians?” Ackerly pitched his voice to carry across the compound and into the ears of all those who babbled as well as the few who had spotted him standing beside the large blue pavilion.

  Silence descended as the crowd stood shocked by his words. Many crossed themselves as they stared at him with gaping jaws and wide eyes.

  I may not be a great magician, but I am far above these mundanes.

  “Step forward, my sons.” He beckoned to the trio of privates at the front of the group. “Tell me your tale. The truth never hurt anyone.”

  “We found the witchwoman stealing supplies,” the middle soldier said. He lifted his head proudly, almost defiantly.

  “Theft is a matter for your sergeant.”

  “But she’s a witch, one of you.”

  “So she is. What did you do when you found her stealing supplies?”

  “We chased her.” The middle private continued to speak. Clearly, the boyish one and the giant looked to him for leadership.

  “And . . . ?” Ackerly allowed a little kindly pink to tinge his aura. He schooled his posture and expression to radiate trust.

  “That black cat, her . . . ah, her familiar was with her. It spread wings and flew.”

  “I saw it, too,” the boy chimed in.

  The giant nodded vigorously.

  “Cats cannot fly,” Ackerly said.

  “This one did.”

  “Flywackets are creatures out of legend.” A flywacket!
A mighty portent of strange events to follow. Ackerly began thinking in terms of the money to be made from a flywacket. He nearly bounced in his excitement. The old books he studied to help Nimbulan create spells spoke frequently of flywackets and other winged creatures thought to be extinct. A flywacket! Three men had a confirmed sighting.

  If Moncriith heard about this portent of demons, he’d stir up a lot of unrest. Mundanes always paid well for a magician to settle chaos.

  “Dragons are mythical, too, but we saw one on the battlefield yesterday.” The crowd shouted unanimous agreement with the boyish private.

  “We shall see if you speak the truth. Sighting a magical creature can only be verified by magic.” Ackerly fought to maintain his dignified, slightly disapproving demeanor.

  Dramatically he spread his arms wide and slightly above shoulder level. With a blink of his eyes and fierce concentration he transported his staff into his right hand. The crowd gasped in awe.

  Good. Let them think he had as much magic as Nimbulan and was more than just an errand boy. They’d treat him with respect next time he requested a service or bumped into them in camp.

  “Let those who claim this magical sighting step forward, clear of all the others.” He swelled his voice and lifted it to reach far beyond normal human limitations. The crowd flowed backward. The three privates each took two hesitant steps forward. Ackerly nodded his acceptance of the increased separation.

  He took a deep breath to clear his lungs. A second breath cleansed his brain. The third put him in touch with the void, the deepest trance he could achieve on his own. None of the onlookers needed to know the strain on his back and thigh muscles to remain upright. Trances weren’t easy for him.

  Nimbulan wouldn’t have wasted the magic to perform this task. A few tricks of crossed eyes and decisive questions by the Battlemage would set the three to babbling uncontrollably.