The Broken Dragon: Children of the Dragon Nimbus #2

by Irene Radford

  In the long corridor outside this room, he heard the orderly tramp of many feet, heavier feet than the entire herd of apprentices. The journeymen were moving into place.

  “Come on. We have to get going.” He stood and offered her his hand as assistance in rising.

  “What . . . what if I can’t do it?”

  “Then sing. That’s what Mama does.”

  “Sing what?”

  “Whatever comes to mind.”

  “You should be a teacher here.” She took his hand and rose gracefully, more graceful than he.

  “Not likely to happen.”

  “But you are good at finding what I need to know and how to go about it.”

  “Perhaps.” Lukan stalled by grabbing his fine robe and slithering into it. “But I sincerely doubt my place is here much longer.” In that moment he knew he’d leave soon, with a journey or without. He’d only stay as long as Mama needed him.

  With both hands, Mikk grabbed hold of the end of a slimy rope as thick as his wrist. Three men-at-arms took up positions before and behind him. He no longer cared that they dismissed his slighter frame and lesser strength in this odious, but necessary chore. The weight of responsibility rested on his shoulders, not theirs. He had to help any way he could.

  To his left another line of soldiers readied a duplicate rope. Ahead of them two metal doors sagged open into the overflow tunnel, five feet above the cavern floor and sloping upward. It ran between the river and this giant hole in the ground, carved out of bedrock—or maybe a natural cavern enlarged by men—lined with gravel, that normally held half of the city’s water supply. Now it contained only enough water to slosh miserably at his ankles and impede his solid stance.

  Even as he watched, natural seepage through the purifying limestone around them began refilling the cistern.

  An eerie silence filled the cavern. The breaths of seven men echoed against the limestone.

  “Ready?” General Marcelle asked from his position between the two lines of men. He held firm to his spear grounded in the muck to prop him up. Lines of pain etched his face, but didn’t affect his straight shoulders or the firmness of his voice.

  “Ready,” replied the two men at the head of each line, the men closest to the doors and the counterweights that would allow the doors to close inward and then drop their panels into the cavern. The press of water from the outside would keep them closed. The panels would prevent most seepage of contaminated water into the fresh cistern.

  “On my count.” They all drew deep breaths and anchored their feet. “One, two, three, heave!”

  Together, all six men handling the ropes leaned backward, feet dug in, arms and shoulders straining to haul the heavy counterweight stones out of their semipermanent embedment in the gravel and muck.

  The rope shifted beneath Mikk’s hands, ancient fibers shredding and burning his palms. Months of sword practice hadn’t built enough calluses. He wanted to cry out and let go.

  He couldn’t. This was too important. He counted in his head all the people in the palace and keep depending upon him and these few men to get those damn doors closed before the rush of water, filthy and brackish, poisoned the city’s water supply.

  He prayed with all of his heart that Master Aggelard had directed his magicians to do the same with their cistern. They had magic. Mikk had only these few men and their physical strength.

  “Heave!” General Marcelle called again. “Come on, lads, I can see the stones wiggling free. Just a little more. Put your backs into it. And heave.”

  Mikk’s vision closed to a single bright circle centered on the lime-encrusted stones. All else turned black. Starbursts appeared between him and the stones. Still he hung on, adding whatever strength and weight he could. His hands burned. His shoulders ached. His feet wanted to slip. And still he held on, concentrating. Willing those stones to move so the doors could slide shut.

  “Heave,” the general grunted.

  The rope moved. The men stepped back cautiously.

  The doors inched toward each other. One foot. Two feet. Six feet each. Only a few more inches to go and they would meet in a firm join. The moment metal touched metal, a series of crossbars would clear to drop in place to hold the doors against the onslaught of water. Those bars would save the city.

  A scream from the front of the line.

  The rope went slack. Then whipped and whirred through his hands, taking two layers of skin with it. At least.

  A heavy plunking sound and the counterweights sank back into their familiar resting place.

  Mikk dropped to his knees, cradling his hands beneath his arms; pressing against them to ease the pain. He saw other men, hardened soldiers all, doing the same.

  The rope floated in the water in many pieces. All of them frayed and rotten.

  The doors remained stubbornly open. Less than a foot gaped between them, stuck and out of alignment. The crossbars and panels couldn’t drop. Any minute now, the storm surge would hit them . . .

  Mikk’s ears popped, filled, and popped again. Something was changing up above.

  “All of you out now. Up the ladder. Don’t waste any time. Get yourselves to safety!” General Marcelle yelled, fixing a stern gaze on each of them.

  “You first, sir,” Mikk croaked. “You need help with that knee.”

  “Precisely. I’ll hold you all up. Don’t argue with me. Get. Out. Of. Here. Now!”

  The men scrambled to obey.

  Mikk oozed to his feet, reluctant to infect his hands with the water rising around his knees. He knew what he had to do. “It’s my responsibility,” he whispered. His belly went numb even as his mind focused clearly on what he had to do.

  “Leave, General Marcelle,” he said, more firmly than he thought possible. “I can slip through the opening and push the doors closed so the crossbars can fall into place.”

  “No.” The general gave him a level stare. “I can’t climb. Doubt I can walk more than three steps. But I can push. You are needed up there.” He gestured toward the metal ladder with his spear, looking every bit as authoritative as Lord Jaylor wielding his magical staff.

  “Sir, it’s my responsibility . . .”

  “Your responsibility is to the people up there. I’m old and useless with this knee. You are young and hale. Now get out of here.”

  “Sir, at least . . .”

  “Now.” The older man turned away from Mikk and heaved himself onto the ledge of the tunnel, then twisted sideways to inch his way through the narrow gap.

  Mikk couldn’t hold him if he tried.

  “Thank you, sir, on behalf of Coronnan City and King Darville, I thank you for your years of loyal service and your sacrifice.”

  “Remember what I taught you, boy. And when you get into trouble, take half a heartbeat to think ‘What would the old general do?’ Do that and you complete my legacy. That’s all I ask.”

  “I can do that, sir. And I’ll make sure Glenndon does too.”

  “Good idea.”

  Tears streaming down his face, Mikk jumped to the ladder and scrambled upward as fast as his tortured hands and weary legs could take him.

  The last thing he heard as he pulled himself up the ladder was the crossbars sliding into place on the inside of the cistern.

  CHAPTER 30

  JAYLOR TOOK a deep breath to steady himself. In the bright light of midafternoon he could see more details surrounding the University courtyard than he thought possible—even if they still lacked color. Eleven other master magicians stepped onto paving stones, each etched with a rune that echoed the pattern of their magic and the twisting or curling of their staffs.

  Journeymen and apprentices grouped behind their masters in the grassy spaces beyond the formal working area, closing a second circle. He noted the silhouette of his son, Lukan, hiding directly behind Marcus, visible only by his aura. That was the one bit of energy that showed clearly to Jaylor in full color. Why?

  No time to puzzle that out right now. They had work to do. />
  Taking another deep breath, praying for grounding and the steadying of his heart and his magic he took one ritual step forward onto his own stone. The pattern of a twisted and knotted braid tingled against his bare feet, welcoming him. He tapped the stone with his staff as an announcement that he was ready.

  “Dragons, we await you!” he called into the air, pulling magic and strength from his gut into his mind and mouth.

  Immediately the constant howling wind from the south and east that tossed the tree canopy shifted, quieted and reawakened in a new pattern of up and down drafts.

  Jaylor, Senior Magician and Chancellor of the University, fought the urge to cringe and duck. “Nothing to fear,” he whispered to himself.

  (Or so you want to believe,) old Baamin chuckled as he dropped gracefully onto the roof ridge of the main building, more alive than an elegant statue but fitting, as if he belonged there. Forever. Fitting, as Baamin had once ruled the University and the Circle of Master Magicians. Jaylor saw only the darker wing veins, tips, and spinal horns as a darker gray than the slate roofing tiles. Comforting to know that his old master and mentor joined him in this critical spell.

  Another flurry of wings disrupted the flow of air that wanted very much to continue pushing north and east around the eye of the storm. Shayla, the magnificent all color/no color iridescent matriarch of the nimbus settled beside Baamin. He knew she was there more from the pulsating air around her than actually seeing her crystal fur that reflected light and sent his gaze around her. She almost glowed.

  She twined her long neck with her mate affectionately. With all of his dealings with dragons over the last twenty years, Jaylor had never seen such intimate interaction between his friends. Perhaps, at long last, the land and the Tambootie trees were healing enough that the dragons considered mating again.

  Later. He needed to get on with the work of the day.

  Six more dragons sent the air scurrying around them as they descended to treetops, hilltops, and boulder tops. Eight dragons. Was that enough to counter the magic-sucking wind?

  “We have gathered in company with the dragon nimbus to balance the elements that have been disrupted by rogue magic with arcane tools. To counter this disruptive force we need all of the members of the Circle and their students. Are you all here?” he called in his most formal manner to those present.

  “Aye!” Marcus replied in ritual fashion by pounding his staff against his paving stone, anchoring it with his right hand and reaching with his left to connect to the next man.

  Each master in turn replied in the same way until Jaylor was the only one left to respond. He anchored his staff on the stone and placed his left hand on Marcus’ shoulder. The beginning stages of a trance grabbed his mind and opened his mind’s eye. For the first time in days (weeks?) his vision cleared. Colors popped into view with startling clarity. Without looking, he sensed his fellow master magicians doing the same.

  When they finished, the journeymen tapped their staffs to the ground and joined left hands to shoulders in a wider circle. The apprentices standing between the two circles touched each other and their master’s back. Then the journeymen edged closer so that the base of their staffs touched the heels of an apprentice.

  Only three other times in Jaylor’s tenure as Senior Magician had so large a Circle been called together to work Great Magic. Wonderful Magic. Necessary-to-save-Coronnan-Magic.

  “Dragons, are you all here?” he continued the ritual, relieved and hopeful that this might work.

  (Not yet,) Shayla replied, nearly startling Jaylor out of the spell’s unity.

  Another flurry of wings, much louder and more disturbing than any one dragon, no matter how large, could cause.

  A quick peek with his real eyes revealed the outlines of a dozen more dragons in all sizes, from a small pony to massive sledge steeds, descending from above. They settled here and there on rooflines, atop boulders, or on the ground.

  Jaylor breathed deeply, the magic in the air thickened, tasted strongly of the Tambootie. He felt almost as if he were drowning in the stuff. He stored as much as he could in the special place behind his heart. He filled his lungs and his brain with the palpable energy. And still there was more, and more. His fellows around the Circle drew in as much as they could. And still there was more magic, ready for them to tap.

  And then the world seemed to pause for a deep breath. When all within the Circle had exhaled, another dragon appeared. A little one, silvery baby fur still shining within crystal strands. Dark, dark blue, with hints of purple refracted from his tips.

  “Indigo,” Jaylor breathed. “A purple dragon, rarest of all, most prized by both nimbus and Circle. We welcome you.”

  Indigo lifted his wings straight up, changing his control of the thick air, and dropped into the center of the Circle with a ruffle of feathers and fur. He’d matured and learned more grace than the last time Jaylor had seen him, when the juvenile dragon had whisked Princess Rosselinda away from a blood-maddened mob in the city to the safety of the University.

  As he thought of the princess, he was saddened that none of the women had joined the Circle of Masters. They could not gather dragon magic.

  Except . . . except Maigret now led a line of twelve women, three master magicians and their journeywomen and apprentices. All of the women currently in residence. All except Brevelan. His heart lurched a moment in worry. Then he forced himself back into his ritual role. Brevelan had commanded him to save the world. Therefore he must. For her. She alone could command him away from her side.

  Maigret ducked beneath the massive circle of men and boys, followed by her entourage, to form their own circle around Indigo. The young dragon preened as each female took hold of one of his spinal horns and then reached out to also hold the staff of a master. Lastly, Princess Rosselinda, just Apprentice Linda now, with her mane of multihued hair bound tightly at her nape and covered with a light blue scarf to match her robe, caressed Indigo’s nose with sincere affection and reached out to clasp Jaylor’s staff.

  “By my bond with Glenndon, through blood and magic, I greet you.” She nodded her head formally to Jaylor. “With your permission, I join my magic to yours and thus to all gathered here.” She tilted her head to include the dragons as well as the quadruple circle of magicians.

  With those few words she had ritually cast off her former life as a favored royal child and accepted life in the University.

  (Anyone can gather magic from a purple dragon,) Indigo reminded them all proudly, but also with mature formality.

  (Now we are complete!) Shayla trumpeted vocally and mentally.

  “To work, my friends,” Jaylor ordered, feeling immense satisfaction. This was why Nimbulan of old had formed the first Circle of Masters. A long chain of history had led Jaylor to this role. He was honored and humbled by the intricate connections. A part of him reached across the distance to connect to Brevelan and bring her awareness here. She was as important to the circle as he.

  When a slender thread attached him to her mind, he sent a small shield wall of magic upward and outward until he touched a similar wall raised by Marcus. Tricky. They had to take it upward into a dome as they always did, but also back behind them to include the junior circles. Strangely, he felt an assist, almost a lubricant, emanating from behind Marcus.

  Lukan! his mind shouted with joy as he recognized the boy’s aura melding with his own. No time to congratulate the boy. No concentration to spare as he accepted the merging of each master and journeyman around and within. A complex lattice grew and grew, encasing each worker individually and as a whole, bringing the dragons within as well.

  “We seek the eye that commands wind and sea to flow around it, as magic flows around our circle. We seek to know and understand the force that directs the eye. The powerful eye that does not work on its own. The eye that pulls all the elements out of balance,” Jaylor chanted, near-singing the words he had formed in his head.

  The masters repeated his words with him. The y
ounger magicians chanted them on the third round. The dragons joined in the fourth, and then once again all the voices and minds in the compound circled with the magic to confirm their goal.

  Power built with each repetition. A spear of light grew above the lattice, drifting aimlessly, turning this way and that, seeking direction. It swirled energy of all colors and patterns around its immense shaft, growing tighter and tighter until it nearly shot off under its own volition. Then Jaylor led one final shout: “Seek the eye.”

  The spear shot up, trailing multihued sparkles that remained in the air, marking its path.

  Images at the tip flew back into Jaylor’s mind. He pulled details of forest, meadow, and river from the arrow back into the minds of each of the participants. The path descended from the foothills, out across the plains and cultivated land, out and out, past the outcropping from the sea that formed one boundary of the Great Bay. Out further across the surging and seething water.

  Raging winds tugged at the arrow, seeking to absorb its energy as it gathered all else by command of the eye. Jaylor pushed with all the combined magic of dragons and magicians. Pushed with a power far beyond what any one of them could command, more than the simple addition of one magician to another. A multiplication and compounding of all their magic. Power greater than the wind circling around the eye at ever-increasing speeds at the outer edges of the storm. Air moved faster and faster closer to the eye. At the edge of the eye the wind covered tens of miles every minute. It hovered, waiting at the wide mouth of the Bay where lighter water mingled with the heavier and saltier water of the ocean.

  Jaylor dared not breathe lest he and the spear lose control and come within the power of the eye.

  With a mighty effort of his wide shoulders, barrel chest, and keen mind, he forced the spear east. East beyond the reach of the storm that pulled all air and water with it, sucking up the water within the Bay, drawing down the mighty River Coronnan. East to the spot where a boat writhed against its anchor, beyond the reach of the storm, but not by much.