Dragon Nimbus Novels: Vol II, The

by Irene Radford

  Nimbulan kept his arm around Myri as he watched Shayla and Rouussin thrust their great wings up and down. They stirred the air. The Tambootie smoke blew back toward Ackerly, dissipated, faded, mixed with clean air from the river and mountains.

  Myri rubbed her eyes, clearing tears away with her sleeve. Nimbulan did the same. Together they scanned the battlefield.

  Chaos reigned below them. Hundreds of inert bodies lay in the trampled grass, sprawled where the smoke had caught them. Only Kammeryl’s army retained their positions, sagging against their pikes and lances, bleary eyed and coughing, but upright. Quinnault’s tenants, pretending to be an army, gradually roused from the choking smoke first. They used pitchfork and shovel handles—now devoid of metal—as braces to hold themselves upright while they coughed their lungs clear. None of the troops, from either army, seemed fit for battle.

  On the hilltop to the south, a ragged line of men was outlined. None moved to help or hinder either side.

  Lord Hanic had arrived, but he held back, waiting for the tide of battle to turn. Waiting to commit his troops only to the winner.

  Nimbulan saw nothing of the Kammeryl d’Astrismos who claimed the crown, or his mounted officers.

  The dying fire on the knoll opposite him demanded his attention. Ackerly lay beside the glowing embers, his hands holding his throat. His aura hovered above him, separated by several arm’s lengths.

  The departing aura proved the man dead. Grief blinded Nimbulan momentarily. Grief for the years of companionship, shared youths, and friendship. He couldn’t let his emotions cloud the debacle forming before him. Ackerly had betrayed him and suffered from his own foolishness. The winds were too capricious to use smoke as a weapon. Too many uncontrollable factors influenced the direction and intensity of smoke.

  The Bloodmage was missing from the knoll. Hastily, Nimbulan searched the field for signs of Moncriith. He supressed the extra heartbeats that bounced in his chest. Moncriith on the loose, possibly crazed by the smoke, was too dangerous. Nimbulan had to account for the Bloodmage.

  Tambootie smoke was debilitating to everyone, magician and mundane. His enemy was out of commission at least temporarily. But where had he gone?

  “Thank you for clearing the air with your wingbeats,” he called to the dragons. Then he turned to the three apprentices designated as runners between his position and the army command post. “Quickly, send a message to Lord Quinnault. He must ride out in front of his troops. If they see him acting calm, they’ll take confidence in him. Tell the lord he must remind the troops not to attack. We are here to defend only.”

  “A barrier. If you could create a wall to keep the armies separate they couldn’t kill each other,” Myri said, her eyes lighting up with the idea.

  “Of course. But Kammeryl would still seek a way to prove himself the greater warrior. That is the only kind of leadership and rule he understands.” Nimbulan closed his eyes and formed the image of an invisible wall running north and south across the entire width of the field. To his surprise, his body responded with a coil of magic ready for forming. He had stored the magic from an earlier gathering rather than dissipating after the last spell. A smile crept across his face as the barrier fell into place.

  A few of the seasoned troops on the front lines pressed against the wall and withdrew, puzzled looks on their faces. A mounted officer raced to the front from a clump of trees off to the left. The steed’s hooves dug up great clumps of turf as it galloped forward. The beast stopped short, skidding the last few lengths before the wall. The rider nearly plunged over his mount’s head in reaction. When he righted himself, he reached out with tentative fingers and pushed against the almost-visible barrier. He jerked it back as if burned.

  Lord Kammeryl d’Astrismos emerged next from the clump of trees. He rode a magnificent, white war steed, heavier boned and stronger than standard cavalry beasts. A golden circlet on his armored helm announced to one and all his claim to be King of Coronnan.

  “Ah, so that’s where he’s been hiding,” Nimbulan murmured.

  “I believe it’s called a strategic vantage point for directing the battle,” Lyman said, hiding a smile behind his hand. His extra long fingers stretched nearly to his ear. “It also makes retreat easier should it become necessary.”

  Kammeryl d’Astrismos also pushed against the wall. He let his hand linger, daring the pain to throw him away.

  “Fight me!” Kammeryl yelled at the top of his lungs. “Make this a fair battle. Fight me with weapons and tactics I can counter.”

  “We do not attack. We only defend,” Nimbulan replied in a voice pitched for all to hear.

  “Then defend yourselves from ME! I challenge Lord Quinnault de Tanos, the traitor, or his champion, to single combat.”

  “I am the Peacemaker.” Quinnault took up the lord’s challenge. “I cannot ask my people to fight for the sake of fighting. Your quarrel is with me, Kammeryl d’Astrismos. Let your battle be with me and let the innocent of Coronnan stand aside, free and unharmed by us.” He strode out to face his enemy without helm or armor, only an ancient sword in his left hand. His fair hair glinted in the sunlight, as pale and fine as Myrilandel’s.

  Suddenly Nimbulan saw the resemblance to Myrilandel in Quinnault’s posture, profile and coloring. Could Myri truly be the lord’s long-lost sister? When? How? He didn’t want to think about the incredibly dark forces needed to reanimate a dead body.

  No time for questions, only time to help and guide Quinnault before he lost the entire war in single combat with Kammeryl d’Astrismos.

  Nimbulan withdrew the barrier.

  Myri watched Quinnault stride to the front of his troops, sword in hand, sunlight glinting on his fine, fair hair. A quick glimpse of his profile, with his long face and proud nose echoed her own image in the metal mirror Nimbulan had given her.

  “He is my brother. We stole his sister’s body to give me life because there can only be one purple dragon alive at a time,” she whispered to herself and to her mother flying the skies above her. She didn’t know if Nimbulan heard her words and didn’t care. He was her husband and had a right to know.

  (Yes. Myrilandel was on the brink of death. Bleeding in her brain from a defect at birth,) Shayla replied. (Her coma was so deep her family thought her dead and placed her in their stone tomb. Had they buried her, we would not have been able to free her in time. Your dragon vitality awakened the human child’s natural talent. Together, you healed the weakness in her brain and stopped the bleeding.)

  “But because she wasn’t quite dead, her spirit lives on inside me. That is why I couldn’t remember. The two spirits vied for dominance and finally compromised on forgetfulness.”

  (Yes.)

  “I can’t let my brother die, Shayla. I have to stop him.” Suddenly she knew that her certainty that Nimbulan would die this day was misplaced. Quinnault de Tanos, her only living blood relative, was the one destined to die.

  (He makes his own destiny.)

  “I must stop him. He is my family. The only human family I have.”

  (You have your husband and your child. Kalen and Powwell look to you rather than their own mothers. Save yourself, Amethyst.)

  “I am Myrilandel. Amethyst must die and be forgotten. I cannot be a dragon anymore. Amaranth is the only purple in all the nimbi of Coronnan. I claim Quinnault as family now.” Myri ran down the hill. She knew only that she had to stand beside her brother in this most important deed in his life. And when the time came, she would use every resource available to save him, including her magic talent.

  Nimbulan caught up with her. Together they ran to help the lord who controlled the fate of Coronnan with his ancient, slightly rusty sword.

  Chapter 38

  “Don’t be a fool, Quinnault.” Nimbulan grabbed the lord’s arm to hold him back from carrying through with his challenge. “You know nothing of weapons and combat. He’ll make mincemeat of you in a matter of moments. Choose a champion. Perhaps one of Hanic’s men.” He pointed
to the line of men silhouetted on the hill.

  A wry smile touched one corner of Quinnault’s mouth. “I’m the son of a lord. I wasn’t always intended for the priesthood. I have trained with weapons. But I admit it’s been a long time since I held a sword. And never as fine a one as my father’s.” He surveyed the length of the weapon that had been spared Nimbulan’s metal shattering spell. The magic had destroyed only the metal carried by the men on the field, not those who waited and directed from behind.

  Intricate runes decorated Quinnault’s slender blade. A moonstone glowed in the pommel. Decorative as it was, it was also a working weapon, meant to be used. A telltale line of rust around the pommel indicated how long the weapon had remained idle and how recent was the polishing that made the runes glow in the growing sunlight.

  “He outweighs you by fifty pounds, his reach is longer, and he’s a practiced warrior,” Myri added her own argument.

  “Once he was a warrior. Now he’s a general. He hasn’t engaged in combat in years. And he’s used to easy living with his fine wines and fancy food. I’ve been building bridges all winter, eating the same rough but hearty food as my tenants.” Again that half smile lightened Quinnault’s set visage. This time the smile almost reached his eyes.

  “My lord, I am your sister.” Myri clasped Quinnault’s hand over the sword hilt, staying his headlong rush into combat. “I wasn’t quite dead when the family buried me.”

  “I guessed something like that happened, Myrilandel. We will talk later. If I survive.” He patted her hand lovingly. Again that wry smile lit his face but not his eyes.

  “You know something, Quinnault. Tell us why you won’t choose a champion to fight this battle for you. Don’t lie to us.” The man’s calm shook Nimbulan, more than Myri’s revelation. He kept his hand on the back of Myri’s waist to brace himself against the coming shock. He thanked the Stargods she had come with him, yet he was frightened out of his wits that she stood so close to the line that could become a battle front at any moment.

  “I know that I have proclaimed my cause as peace, not conquest. If I win, all of the families who have lost men and land and crops and the will to live during a war, will flock to my side. The people are ready for peace. They will grasp it any way they can. Kammeryl has only recently declared himself king. He offers the people nothing but more war. If he wins, they will depose him, and I will still win.”

  “But you’ll be dead.” Myri clung to Quinnault rather than wipe her tears away. “I have so much to tell you, brother.”

  “I know some of it, Myrilandel. I pray that we will have the time to rediscover our mutual past.” Quinnault caressed her hair, lovingly, as he would a small child. The child sister he remembered? “But if Kammeryl kills me, I will become a martyr to the cause of peace. We all know that a dead martyr is worth a hundred live rabble-rousers. Make sure the people remember me and not Moncriith and his demons.”

  He turned abruptly and walked to a place near the center of the field, his troops behind him, Kammeryl’s army before him, and the crowds of camp followers and neighbors lining the hillsides around the field. The people of Coronnan cleared a circle for the two combatants, roughly one hundred arm’s lengths across.

  Kammeryl rode his magnificent steed to one side of the cleared space. He pulled the crowned visor down on his helm and loosed his sword. No king would attend a battle carrying a lance, pike, or ax. Only a sword symbolized the honor of a man who ruled.

  A common soldier from Kammeryl’s ranks rushed up to Quinnault, offering his own boiled leather helmet. Not much protection, but better than nothing—the offer more valuable considering the source.

  “Take it, Quinnault. Please take it. And the breastplate the next man offers,” Myri whispered, clutching Nimbulan’s arm so tightly she nearly cut off the circulation to his hand.

  “Interesting that the offers of assistance come from my enemy’s army,” Quinnault said, that half smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He donned the borrowed protection. Three men rushed to help him with the buckles of the chest and back leathers.

  Myri stepped forward to help. Nimbulan held her back.

  “The Stargods control the outcome of this duel, Myri. We can only watch,” he replied, patting her hand, but not loosing her fingers. Somehow he needed that slight discomfort to remind him what these men fought for.

  “You can armor him with magic, Nimbulan. A thin bubble that no one else can see,” Myri pleaded. Her eyes never left her brother.

  “If I could, I would. This must be a battle between the lords. One of them must prove his right to govern by the outcome of this battle. If I help now, then Quinnault’s victory or defeat will be mine, not his. If he uses his own magic to protect himself, then the victory or defeat will be for magicians and not Quinnault. No one must interfere.” Sadly, Nimbulan pulled Myri close against his chest. “You don’t have to watch.”

  She drew her face away from the protective folds of his formal robe. “I must watch. I must know the moment of his death or his living.” She turned within the circle of his arms, resolutely facing the field of combat, filled with anger and fear.

  “You will do anything to win, Kammeryl d’Astrismos. Even entering single combat asteed while your opponent has no mount or armor,” Quinnault taunted. “Your honor will be in question for as long as you live. As well as your prowess at arms. Every lord with a strong companion will know that you are afraid to face me, an untrained warrior, a former priest, on equal ground.”

  Kammeryl snarled an incomprehensible animal sound of fury as he kicked his steed into a full charge. The visor restricted his vision. Quinnault neatly sidestepped out of the path of the white steed. At the last moment he dipped his sword and severed the saddle girth. The tip of hammered steel nicked the steed’s side. The animal reared and screamed. Kammeryl lost his balance as his saddle slipped and gravity dragged him toward the Kardia. He was too skilled a rider to fall, dismounting lithely at the last moment, sword at the ready, visor pushed back for better line of sight.

  Quinnault widened his stance, grasping his sword with both hands. The blade did not waver. But Nimbulan saw the tension in his neck and in between his eyes.

  The first blow from Kammeryl came quickly, without warning. A powerful downward stroke meant to split open his opponent’s thin leather helmet and his skull beneath. Quinnault blocked the blow, and the next, never having time to recover and strike one of his own.

  Slash and thrust, duck and parry. Quinnault led Kammeryl in an exhausting and dangerous dance around the circle. Slash, thrust. Sidestep, jump, and roll. Blow after blow, they wove their way around the circle once, twice. A third time.

  The older, stouter warlord breathed heavily, but still he pressed the younger, more agile lord to his limits.

  Quinnault parried another blow and retreated closer to the silent watchers. His aura remained closed. Nimbulan couldn’t read the man’s emotions or physical state. But then, he never could. Kammeryl stepped forward, raising his sword for another strike. His aura seethed with red-and-orange fury. Black spots surged and faded within the envelope of light.

  The wry half smile lighted Quinnault’s face once more. He must have seen the aura, too, known that Kammeryl’s temper would get the better of him; known that the man’s inner balance was always precarious.

  Quinnault wasn’t strong enough to deflect the rapidly twisting blade aimed for his gut. Bright blood stained his tunic across his middle. He staggered, clutching at the wound with his free hand. His sword dangled uselessly from a rapidly weakening left hand.

  Kammeryl moved in closer for a killing blow. Confidence slowed him. He wanted to savor the moment of his adversary’s death.

  Nimbulan wanted to close his eyes, knowing the battle was over. Firmly he made himself watch. For at the moment of Quinnault’s death, he would have to begin the campaign to proclaim him a martyred saint in the name of peace.

  Quinnault ducked and rolled. Kammeryl’s blow barely touched his shoulder. A
s Kammeryl brought back his sword again, his raised arms lifted his body armor, revealing a vulnerable crack in his middle. Quinnault thrust his sword tip toward the bared midriff, but he was rapidly losing his strength. The blade went no farther. Kammeryl laughed, raising his sword higher.

  “You’re dead, Peacemaker. You’re dead already. I see the light fading from your eyes. I could stand here and watch you bleed to death. But I’ll be merciful and make it quick.” As he brought the weapon down, he bent forward to guide the blade to the fallen man. Quinnault thrust upward with the last of his strength.

  Both men collapsed. Their blood mingled and stained the beaten grass beneath them.

  Myri wrenched herself away from Nimbulan’s convulsive grasp. The sight of her brother’s blood brought her talent into full, insistent preparedness.

  (Don’t, Myrilandel. Don’t risk your child,) Shayla reminded her.

  “I must save him. I can’t watch him die,” Myri protested.

  (Then let Amaranth help you. Gather his magic for your healing spells.)

  “Women can’t gather dragon magic.” She ripped Quinnault’s tunic open, exposing the wound. Then she pressed a strip from her skirt against the gaping edges of skin, praying the pressure would slow the bleeding.

  “Anyone can gather magic from a purple-tipped dragon. Even women and mundanes, provided the dragon in question is willing.” Old Lyman, the mysterious magician who seemed to know more about dragons than Myri did, chuckled as he reached pale hands to help add pressure to the wound. “In another existence, I was called Iianthe—the last purple-tipped dragon before Amaranth and Amethyst made a premature entrance into this world. After that I drifted for many years as the guardian spirit of the beginning place until Nimbulan called me forth in the name of peace. Amaranth is willing to give magic to this spell. I must guide you both.”

  A swoop of wings fanned the air before Myri could question the old man whose fingernails appeared slightly lavender where the blood pulsed beneath them. The crowd pressing close to Myri and her patient gasped and fled backward. A gentle thud behind Myri announced the landing of her familiar, now in full dragon form.