Dragon Nimbus Novels: Vol II, The

by Irene Radford

  “Send out search parties, quickly. Rovers hide in the region. Find them and bring them to the king’s hall for justice. Take soldiers with you,” he called to the men he sensed gathering around him. “Your murder will be the last, Haakkon. I swear it. If I have to follow Televarn all the way to Hanassa, I will stop these senseless deaths.” He clutched the limp body to his aching chest. Hot tears gathered in his eyes.

  Televarn fed sticks into his little fire, idly watching the green flames consume the wood. If only he dared burn some Tambootie branches, he could watch the progress of the sea battle in the flames with his FarSight. But the aromatic smoke of the tree of magic would alert Nimbulan’s people to his presence. This opening in the mainland forest west of Coronnan City was too close to the capital. He couldn’t afford to be found. Not until Nimbulan had triggered the trap and drowned in a wall of water. Water should have had time to fill the magician’s private chamber to the ceiling by now.

  Televarn shivered as a moist breeze rose up from the river. He smelled the richness of the lush forest and the chill ran deeper into his body. “S’murghing damp,” he cursed the river, the mud, the islands, and the battle that kept Nimbulan from returning to his bed. Televarn needed to be back in Hanassa, breathing the clean desert air, letting the intense sun bake the damp from his bones.

  S’murghit! He needed to get back there, monitor Yaassima, and gather his forces to resist her rule. He needed to wrest Myrilandel away from her manipulations.

  Perhaps Myrilandel could spy on Yaassima for him and learn the Kaalipha’s weaknesses. He had control of one of the Kaalipha’s secrets. But he needed more.

  How much longer could Nimbulan linger on the battlements? The tide had receded hours ago. If the Senior Magician didn’t go home soon, someone else might enter his private chambers and drown instead.

  Bare luck had put Televarn in the path of the little girl sent to fetch something from the room earlier in the day. She had the only spare key and knew that no magic seal locked the door. He had pocketed the key and sent her off to her other chores, promising to take the book to Nimbulan himself. He hadn’t, of course. He’d left Water alone to do its work.

  He checked the section of woods where two trees leaned together to form an arch. That was his exit to safety. At certain times, the dragongate shifted time and distance to open portals to different locations. This was only one of many such destinations. All of the portals led back to Hanassa and nowhere else. During the past night of waiting, Televarn had watched the dragongate open and close once, when the full moon created an arch-shaped shadow between the trees. The interval between access times shifted randomly. He had no way of knowing when the opportunity to return to Hanassa would present itself again. Today, tomorrow, within the next moment? He knew that it would only happen when there was enough light to cast the proper shadows.

  He didn’t dare leave until Wiggles returned to him. He owed the ferret’s owner the return of the smelly little beast. He owed more than he wanted to admit.

  A hot blast of wind and a faint tingle of power made the hair on his arms stand up straight. The dragongate was getting ready to open again. His own fire had created enough of a shadow between the trees to suggest an arch.

  Where was Wiggles?

  If he lingered much longer in this opening, barely two hours’ walk from the capital, he ran the risk of being discovered. Should he take the chance of returning without the ferret?

  Underbrush rattled off to his left, close to the riverbank. He stood up, ready to kick dirt over his fire and flee the open circle. Once amid the Tambootie trees, with their dormant magic embedded in leaves, sap, bark, and fruit, he could hide indefinitely.

  Nimbulan’s people would want revenge for the death of their leader. Wiggles might lead them directly here—if they had the sense to follow the creature once the trap was sprung. Perhaps Televarn should flee now and save himself. Simurgh take the ferret.

  The rustling grew louder.

  The air between two leaning Tambootie trees shimmered. The dragongate wouldn’t stay open long. Now—or wait for the next opening?

  Wiggles burst through the thick saber ferns that marked the path to the river. The animal ran with the strangely efficient undulations of his kind, tail up, middle down, shoulders up, nose down. Then his entire body shifted forward by trading ups and downs. He streaked across the circular opening in the woods almost faster than Televarn’s sight could follow.

  Three men carrying clubs followed Wiggles, barely two steps behind the ferret. One look at their blue tunics with the dragon badge over their hearts and Televarn knew they were Nimbulan’s magicians, bent on revenge.

  “Come,” Televarn commanded the ferret. He snapped his fingers and the creature leaped onto his leg, clinging to his trews with needle-sharp teeth and claws. Never mind the pain and the rents in the cloth. He had to get back to Hanassa. Now.

  The shimmering light between the two trees faded.

  Televarn closed his eyes and dove for the remnants of the strange light just as the first club caught his hamstring.

  “You must hurry, Nimbulan. Quinnault’s messenger is on his way to summon you to court. You must be well away before he comes or you will never be free to leave the capital.” Old Lyman hastily buckled the straps of the half-filled pack on Nimbulan’s bed.

  “I feel strange leaving without the king’s permission and without resolving Haakkon’s death. I should say the prayers at his funeral.” Nimbulan resisted a jaw-cracking yawn. He’d snatched a few hours of sleep and a meal. Other than that, he hadn’t slept in a day and a night.

  He needed to replenish his reserves. Lyman had brought food, meat and bread, and a huge pitcher of water.

  He gulped down as much as he could, then hesitated in the doorway of his private chamber, longing to return to his bed. All traces of the water that had filled the room mere hours before had fled when the essence of the element rushed back to its place of origin.

  A few of Nimbulan’s books had been damaged. But everything had dried so quickly, so completely, the essence of Water might not have filled the room hours before.

  “There are plenty of people who can say the prayers for Haakon.” Lyman bowed his head in a moment of silence. “I will say a few for Amaranth, too. The purple-tipped dragon died trying to tell you where Myri is held captive. Will you waste his death in the endless talk that surrounds a government striving for peace?”

  Nimbulan recited a brief prayer remembered from his childhood.

  “I need my journal. I must record the events and the plots that threaten to disrupt Coronnan and the Commune,” he said, searching his desk for the little book filled with blank paper. He cast aside six books from earlier years. He couldn’t think straight. Where had he put the new one? He found it open on his desk, the ink from his entries two days ago smudged and blurred from Water’s presence. “I must stop the murders of my apprentices. They were like sons to me, Lyman.”

  “You have a son of your body now, Nimbulan. You must find him and save him from Televarn. But you must leave immediately, before the king and your suffocating sense of duty chain you here for all eternity.” Lyman handed him the pack.

  “I wish I knew how that man escaped in the woods. Even with fully active ley lines, a magician can’t transport a living being. Have an apprentice and a journeyman camp there if they must while they examine every grain of dirt for evidence of magic.” Nimbulan shouldered the pack and reached for his journal to tuck into his pocket. His staff jumped to his hand.

  “The answers lie at the end of his trail, not the beginning.” A far-off look came into Lyman’s eyes. He cocked his head as if listening to something beyond human understanding. “Go, quickly. The messenger from Quinnault crosses the bridge as we speak. You can’t delay even a moment. Myrilandel and the children are in terrible danger.”

  “Are you in communication with the dragons?” Nimbulan halted with his hand on the door latch. This revelation might take him on a direct course rath
er than chasing in circles after an assassin or running blindly to Hanassa to rescue Myri.

  “All I can say is that a dragon awaits you. A young one who wants to explore more than he wants to obey Shayla. But you must hurry or he will fly away with the rest of the nimbus. You can’t afford the delay of walking to Hanassa. If you do, you will lose Myrilandel forever.”

  “Be sure you give my letter to King Quinnault. He deserves an explanation.”

  Lyman pushed the Senior Magician out the door. “I’ll look after things here, in your absence, but keep in touch.”

  “I’m going with you.” Rollett, the oldest of the journeymen magicians stood in the doorway. He, too, carried a pack of provisions, and a journal poked out of his pocket. His eyes looked hollow and black, as if sleep had eluded him longer than it had Nimbulan.

  “No, Rollett. I can’t risk losing you as well. This trip is dangerous enough.” Nimbulan grasped the younger man’s shoulder affectionately, but firmly.

  “I’ll follow if you don’t take me with you. You need someone to watch your back, Nimbulan. There is treachery here as well as on the road. I am coming.”

  “Hurry, Nimbulan.” Lyman took both Nimbulan and Rollett by the arm and guided them toward a back staircase. “The dragon won’t wait long. Take the boy. He’s right about treachery. Lord Konnaught is with King Quinnault’s messenger. He’s planning something. Something dire for you and for the king. Now get out of here before someone else dies.”

  Chapter 14

  Powwell opened his eyes and slammed them closed again in the bright glare. A sharp ache pounded in his right temple and spread to his neck and shoulders, down to his lower back.

  A bizarre noise pulsed around him in rhythm with the pain in his head. It sounded like a threshing machine, but louder and harsher. Much louder.

  Yeek, kush, kush. Yeek, kush, kush.

  Over and over the noise pushed aside rational thought and self-awareness. It smothered him, wrapping him tighter and tighter, until he was the heart of the terrible sounds. Nothing existed but the noise.

  He’d heard those sounds before.

  “You’ll get used to it,” a husky voice penetrated the noise and Powwell’s mind.

  He opened his left eye a slit. If he opened his right eye, the noise and the light would stab it out.

  A dirty face looked back at him. Hard to tell if it was a young male or female. The voice gave no clue to gender either. A dirty kerchief knotted over the left ear, Rover style, covered the person’s hair entirely.

  “Pretty soon you won’t notice the noise at all. Even the heat will seem tolerable after a few moons. I’m Yaala.” A feminine name. She held out a hand in greeting, palm up. A masculine gesture.

  “Powwell.” He raised his left hand slowly to place on top of Yaala’s. His right arm seemed to be pinned beneath his body. Every muscle in his back and shoulders protested. He winced. Sweat poured off his body in the tremendous heat.

  Thorny was in his right pocket! He rolled over, groaning with the movement. He probed Thorny’s hiding place with his thoughts and fingertips. His tunic pocket was empty. Thorny!

  Chip, chip, mmmblr, grmmmblr, came the muffled gibbering reply from nearby. Powwell couldn’t understand his familiar’s emotions, only that the little hedgehog hadn’t been hurt.

  “Did they beat you?” Yaala seemed to be squatting in front of him, quite comfortable on her heels.

  “Not much.” He mentally inventoried the sorest points on his body. The dull ache in his gut and jaw where the guards had punched him to subdue him, and the sharper throb in his right temple made themselves known right away. The rest of his misery seemed to be reaction to those pains.

  A small biting irritation on his right calf told him that Thorny clung to his flesh with his tiny claws. The hedgehog must be trying to find a safe hiding place in Powwell’s trews pocket. Powwell’s discomfort eased a little. His familiar was safe for now.

  “Here, drink this.” Yaala pressed a metal cup to his lips.

  Powwell drank greedily, unaware of his thirst until he swallowed. The taste of rancid eggs fouled his mouth and set his eyes and nose to running. He spat out the tainted water. Some of it sprayed on Yaala’s thin shirt.

  “Drink. You’ll get used to it.” She laughed at his discomfort. “It’s all you get down here. The heat leaches the sweat from you in no time. You’ve got to drink a lot or die.”

  “We’re dead already,” Powwell grumbled. Cautiously, he sipped at the awful tasting water. He clung to his last communication from Kalen. If anyone could get him out of the pit alive, it was Kalen. He’d have to make the effort to stay healthy and vital until she got here, despite the water.

  “Depends on how you look at things.” Yaala twisted her legs beneath her and sat on the rough ground. And who’s on guard duty this shift.”

  “Enlighten me.” Powwell laid his head back on the ground, urging Thorny into the pocket. The effort of sitting up seemed too much in the oppressive heat. His ribs throbbed painfully. He wanted to bathe them in cold water to reduce the swelling. The hot, red light only aggravated them. He couldn’t see any colors, only shades of blacks and grays, overshadowed with the strange red-yellow haze. The light and heat drained everything of vitality and color.

  He had to fight the despair that radiated from the pit. Kalen would rescue him. Come quickly! he urged her.

  “Yaassima never comes down here,” Yaala said. “She trusts her elite guards to keep us in line. Not all of her guards are trustworthy.”

  “That’s something positive,” Powwell replied.

  “The assassins she sends down here either treat us nice or they wind up having an accident.”

  “They might not kill us, but heat and neglect will,” Powwell replied. The feeling of hopelessness wiggled in his gut. Thorny pricked his thigh with his sharp spines, jolting Powwell out of accepting the defeating emotions.

  “You’d be surprised how long people can live down here, as long as they remember to feed us.” Yaala looked back over her shoulder toward the next chamber. “I make sure they do remember.”

  Powwell sensed movement in there. He struggled to sit up again. “Is there a chance they’ll forget to feed us?”

  Kalen had told him to endure. She’d find a way to get him out. But if he starved to death in the meantime . . .

  “Not s’murghing likely. There are too many of us with family and friends on the outside. They see that we get fed. Besides, Yaassima needs us—me—alive and well.” Yaala stood up in one fluid motion. “Drink your water, then I’ll show you to your work station.”

  Powwell shifted onto his left elbow preparing to roll to his knees. As he moved, his shirt stuck to his side where a guard’s boot had broken the skin. The coarse cloth prickled against his sweat-dampened back.

  “How come you aren’t sweating?” he asked. For the first time he realized Yaala looked as cool and fresh as if they were lounging in the clean mountain air of Myrilandel’s clearing. Except her clothing was gray. Everything down here was gray or black.

  “I guess I’m used to the heat and don’t need to sweat now.” She shrugged.

  Two men wandered toward them, seemingly from the heart of the fire. They, too, looked thin and worn, with dirty sweat masking their features. Their gray clothes hung damp and limp upon stooped shoulders.

  “We’re ready for the ceremony, Yaala,” one of the men said, his voice barely above a harsh whisper. She nodded and started walking toward the brightest point of red light.

  “What ceremony?” Powwell asked as he balanced, first on his knees and then on his feet. Thorny poked his nose out of the pocket and wiggled it, rapidly digesting the scents of their new home. He didn’t like it and rolled back into a sharp ball. Powwell wished he could do the same.

  “You might as well watch with the rest of us. You’re one of us now.” Yaala beckoned him to follow.

  The blinding glare resolved into a single tunnel in a maze of black openings. Powwell spent several mo
ments trying to memorize landmarks—a triangular outcropping here, a rockfall there. Flickers of white movement teased his peripheral vision. He kept looking for the source of those brief glimpses of white rather than for distinctive features.

  The heat increased, and he mopped his brow with his sleeve. Maybe the sweat dripping into his eyes blurred his vision. He wished he’d drunk more of the water; as bad as it tasted, he needed the liquid.

  “Don’t waste time learning the route. All the tunnels lead to one place eventually.” Yaala paused where the tunnel opened up into a large cave. She stood at the edge of a precipice. Below them, far, far below them, molten rock churned and boiled, shooting flares up hundreds of feet. None of those huge flares came close to where they stood. A thousand feet or more separated the ledge from the core of the volcano. Still, the roiling lava dominated the scene. The ceiling soared so far above him, Powwell couldn’t see the top.

  How deep below the crater’s surface had they come?

  The temperature rose higher yet. Powwell staggered back two steps away from the edge. Vertigo tempted him forward into the boiling heart of the volcano. The Kardia seemed to press heavily against his shoulders. The air left his lungs in long gasps. He couldn’t inhale. He imagined all the air was concentrated in the molten rock. If he wanted to breathe, he’d have to throw himself into the next flare that nibbled greedily at the flimsy ledge where he stood.

  “Don’t look at it. Keep your eyes on the walls.” Yaala grabbed his arm and pushed him hard against the tunnel archway. “The pit will eat your soul if you let it. Just as it eats away at Hanassa.”

  Powwell closed his eyes and absorbed the solid feel of the rock pressing against his back. His feet still tingled with the vibrations of those flares slamming against the ledge. Almost like waves running against a cliff.

  Slowly he opened his eyes, keeping his gaze away from the hypnotic fires of the pit. To his right and left people stood in other tunnel openings in groups of four or five. Gray-clad denizens side by side with black-clad guards. All around the immense pit, they stood and waited in respectful silence. Powwell tried counting the faces. He lost track at one hundred and seventeen.