The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I

by Irene Radford

  Baamin silently applauded the young prince for linking his recent captor with Krej. The witchwoman probably kept the enchanted wolf in hiding on her father’s orders.

  At that moment a small bundle of multicolored fur chose to race and bound through the great hall. Baamin recognized the cat from Yaakke’s report. He called her Mica. A suitable name considering her nearly iridescent fur.

  Mica made a show of circling Darville’s legs, while yowling her displeasure over something. The prince ignored her.

  “Get that cat out of here!” Krej jerked back from the edge of the table just as Mica leaped from the dais to the table. She spat at him with incredible disdain but did not linger near the Lord Regent. Instead she sauntered to the ambassador, sniffed his hand, licked it and began to purr so loud Baamin could hear it half a room away.

  “This cat,” the ambassador’s face lit with a mighty grin, “where did she come from?” He stroked her fur with lingering affection.

  Krej continued to lean away from the cat’s presence. “It’s just a cat. There are numerous ones about to catch mice.” Not likely, judging from Krej’s dislike, or fear, of this one.

  “The cat came with me,” Darville interrupted.

  “She is near duplicate of our princess’s pet, such unusual fur. The cat was much beloved but disappeared some time ago. Princess Rossemikka has mourned the loss ever since.” The ambassador’s attention was now on the prince.

  Baamin continued to watch Krej for signs of trickery. “A gift of this cat to the Princess Rossemikka would be a suitable token for one who seeks alliance,” the second ambassador suggested.

  “NO!” Krej bellowed, but not at this suggestion. His eyes narrowed to angry slits, his face paled to the color of the table cover. “He can’t. I won’t let him rob me of my treasure!” The Lord Regent jerked to his feet unsteadily. “Guards, into the great hall. Kill the intruders!”

  Hastily, Baamin threw a magic barrier across the archway. No one must interfere with Jaylor.

  But Darville was faster. His right hand flung something into Krej’s face. “Poison! The prince has poisoned me,” the Lord Regent screamed in pain. He clawed at his face with desperate hands. His breath rattled and gasped.

  “Go to Jaylor, quickly!” Darville commanded Baamin as he drew his sword. “I’ll hold off the guards as long as I can.” Already the prince’s sword slashed and grappled with the soldiers seeking to defend their lord.

  “Is Shayla still alive?” Jaylor whispered.

  Brevelan nodded. “Just barely.”

  Jaylor began deep breathing in preparation for the ordeal before him. From Brevelan’s raspy tone he guessed his time was limited. Shayla’s imprisonment would kill the dragon very soon. Her freedom would see his own death.

  He was resigned to it now, after days of worry and depression. There was a lightness in his mind and body. His life, and death, had a purpose.

  The magic beneath his feet vibrated through his being in rhythm with his respiration. He nurtured the flow for several counts until he felt full to exploding with raw power. He raised the mended staff over his head until the magic pulsed within it too. With luck, Brevelan’s splice would last through this one last spell.

  He didn’t want the magic and the power raw. It needed to be refined and fine-tuned to imitate Krej’s original spell. In his mind Jaylor relived the scene in Shayla’s cave.

  Once again he saw the beast-headed rogue capering to his own chanted spell. He had used the chant very much as Brevelan, his daughter, used her music.

  The magic vibrated again, in time with the remembered chant.

  There had been words, too. Words describing the desired result of the spell. Jaylor didn’t like words. They tended to be imprecise, ambiguous, compared to the very vivid pictures he created in his mind. But this spell had been created with words, so it must end with words.

  “Precious dragon from glass.

  Precious glass from sand.”

  The magic hummed louder within him. He felt the pressure of people at his back, anger, fear, and the clash of steel. He didn’t care. Nothing mattered but the power of the music inside him.

  “Ordinary sand from the sea.

  Nurturing sea from creator air.”

  Brevelan sang the tune beside him. It filled him to overflowing. The staff glowed. With great effort he contained the magic within him. The spell was not yet complete.

  “Blessed wind from air.

  Purifying air for freedom.

  Freedom for dragon made of glass,

  sand,

  seA,

  aIR,

  WIND!”

  With the final words he pictured that glorious flight with the dragons playing with the wind, soaring above Coronnan in an exquisite cherishing of the ultimate freedom. There were no chains to the ground, no compulsions to eat of the Tambootie, no restrictions, and no pain.

  Colors burst forth from his staff in a glowing storm, red and blue and copper in a braided shaft arrowed toward the back corner of the room, bounced and fled straight into the heart of the dragon, green and red and the elemental copper flowing in a hazy halo about the sculpture. Blue and red balls bounced about the room, landing on each of the other sculptures, himself and Brevelan. All the colors of Coronnan split into a bright haze that filled the huge hall. Then they wove back into braids of magic that twined with each of the sculptures.

  The sound of wild gusts of air pushed the magic into the directed targets.

  Bits of copper broke loose from the braids of bright colors. The element sought and surrounded tiny morsels of emerald and dark ruby encased in the glass.

  Krej’s life spirit contained in the spell faded and fled to the far reaches of the hall.

  Freed from the restrictive traps, Jaylor’s magic burst loose. Just barely, he kept it within his control.

  His overworked lungs and heart stuttered. And still he drew more power up from the bowels of the planet, fed more and yet more magic into the spell.

  The magic of Coronnan pulsed through his veins, tore through his body mercilessly. With a mighty effort he turned the staff to the dragon’s tail. It twitched. With the tiny movement, glass broke and tinkled to the floor. That small amount of freedom generated a greater swipe of the mighty tail.

  Farther and farther up the dragon’s spine the glass fractured, splintered, shattered. With each release, Shayla’s tail slashed farther and farther. It beat at the glass on her hind legs and belly. It flogged the metals encasing the other animals nearest her. Those, too, began to shatter. Then her front legs shook free of the ensorcellment.

  Jaylor heaved his staff forward to Shayla’s broad chest and neck.

  He was the power, the Power was Jaylor. He mastered the Power and was mastered by it. Nothing existed except the Power.

  He saw the dragon as she had been; he was with her, in her, her mate and herself all at the same time. Through her eyes he saw himself and the quaking Brevelan, who touched the dragon’s mind. He saw Darville fighting for his life with a purloined sword against three hefty guards, and Baamin’s feeble attempts to contain the fight and their enemy Krej as they all spilled into the Great Hall. He felt Shayla’s pain and loneliness, cherished the freedom that was creeping up her back and neck.

  With a mighty twist, the last shower of glass cascaded from her head and horn.

  “Grrooowerrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!” Shayla roared, once more herself. The other animals echoed the triumph of Jaylor’s magic over their enchantment.

  Jaylor slumped to the floor, deflated at the separation from Shayla’s and Brevelan’s mind.

  The magic ceased to flow. Jaylor ceased to breathe.

  Chapter 35

  “Seize him! Seize him you fools,” Krej ordered his burly guards.

  Three men advanced on Darville, swords drawn and at the ready. The prince moved to stand between them and the doorway to the Great Hall. He had to give Jaylor and Baamin time.

  Slash and parry, duck and dive under the man’s guard. He pu
shed all of his concentration, anger, and strength into maintaining his position. He’d fought three men on the training field. Three bored soldiers who were afraid to be too aggressive with a prince.

  These three men in red and green surcoats were well trained and eager to please a ruthless lord. They pushed Darville back, closer and closer to the door. One man distracted him with a flourish of fancy blade work.

  Darville answered him stroke for stroke. A second man slipped in under his guard. Blood trickled down Darville’s arm. His mind registered the fact that he was wounded. His body had yet to feel it.

  He clenched his free hand into a fist and slammed it into the face of the man with the flourishing sword. He staggered backward into the arms of the third man. That left only one to deal with.

  Then the cut began to burn and so did his mind. With renewed fury and bared teeth Darville slashed and lunged until the bigger man and his partner were pinned against one of the long tables. The third man seemed to be out cold on the floor.

  A woman screamed and overturned her chair as she backed away from the fight. Servitors and nobles alike ran or scurried into dark corners for protection. Strong men cowered and weak women stared at the blood on his arm and the blood on the throat of the guard in fascination. The other guards hesitated in a semicircle around him. Darville didn’t know what kept them back. Had Baamin thrown some kind of armor? A little late if he had.

  “Swear your loyalty to me!” he commanded the man pinned beneath his sword. “I am your prince, soon to be your king. Swear your loyalty or die.”

  The guard gulped loudly. The sword point scratched his throat as the words worked their way up. “I swear,” he croaked.

  “And you, all of you as well will swear.” Darville swung around to face the crowd. A few of the nobles were already on their knees murmuring the words of fealty.

  “Forget this puny princeling. I am your rightful lord!” Krej screeched, half blinded by the witchbane.

  No one answered him. Hands covering his face, the Lord Regent turned and ran toward the Great Hall.

  Darville saw the move and lunged to capture his cousin in a cruel grip. “Call off your men, Krej!” he commanded.

  Krej continued to hold one hand over his eyes but said nothing. Darville realized his cousin’s magic was neutralized, or he would never have been able to touch the man. The witchbane had worked.

  “Very good, your grace,” one of the ambassadors applauded with voice and hands.

  “We believed your people weak. You have just proven yourself a warrior worthy of our princess,” the other ambassador bowed low. He still cradled Mica in his arms. The traitorous cat looked all too content to stay with him.

  “Look at him, you traitors!” Krej bellowed. “Look at how he bares his teeth and his hair stands up, just like a wolf. He is still part wolf and can never be trusted. Is this the man you wish to be your ruler?” With a mighty jerk, Krej pulled away from Darville and lunged once more for the tapestry that masked access to the Great Hall and Shayla.

  Darville bounded after him, sword at the ready. The entire crowed followed.

  The woven drapery tore down the middle and slipped to the ground in limp folds.

  No one noticed a weary royal messenger, spurs clanking on the stone floor, limp into the banquet hall.

  “SHAYLA!” Brevelan commanded with voice and mind. The great dragon head swung back and forth in anger, mouth agape, sparks dripping from her teeth. Her gaze pinned Krej and Darville to the wall near the entrance.

  He must pay for his evil. Shayla’s voice once more filled Brevelan, after weeks of absence. Even with the anger, Brevelan felt a little more complete now that her dragon was with her.

  “Not here, not now, and not by you.” She fought for control.

  I am the one wronged.

  “But restored.”

  My young?

  Brevelan pushed her awareness to the tiny life forms within Shayla. Eleven of them, where before there had been twelve. Sadness at the one lump of inanimate flesh filled them both. But the others were fully formed and nearer readiness than they should be.

  It is too soon! Shayla wailed with a spittle of flame from her gaping muzzle. They will be born out of cycle.

  Brevelan sought to contain the fire. “They will live. And so must you. Kill my father now and this crowd will gladly watch you die. Your brood with you.”

  Another morsel of flame ripped toward the growing crowd huddled against the interior wall.

  “No, Shayla. If you kill my father, you kill me as well.” Brevelan knew it in her heart. She was tied by blood and magic to the one man in the entire kingdom she wished she could disown. Blood of her blood, flesh of her flesh. She would feel his death, share his pain more fully than any but Mama. If the death of an unknown squirrel in the meadow pained her, Krej’s death in the same room as she would kill her.

  “Grrrooowerrrrrr!” Shayla belched forth one more burst of defiant fire. She whirled about the room, seeking escape. Her tail lashed back and forth, sweeping a pathway. Yet it kept free of the recumbent form of Jaylor, her deliverer. The one time she came close to his body she almost curled her tail around him in a protective coil.

  The magician loves you. The words came to Brevelan with typical dragon abruptness. Then there was only silence.

  Darville sagged with Shayla’s silence. There was a momentary hole where his heart used to be. He pulled Brevelan tight against him to fill the void. The world righted for him again.

  As long as Brevelan was at his side, he was complete. He was in command.

  “A live dragon, ensorcelled in your own Great Hall, Lord Regent?” Darville almost spat his question. He whirled to face his cousin, pointing his sword at Krej’s throat. He wished he could murder the rogue magician on the spot and get away with it.

  “You are in no position to question anything, wolf-man.” Krej eyed him levelly. Though shorter and older than himself, Krej was still a commanding presence.

  “Rogue magic was outlawed three hundred years ago for precisely these reasons,” Baamin reminded them all. “Magic cannot be allowed if it is used for the sake of greed and power. It must be controlled by the Commune and used solely for the good of the kingdom.”

  “The statues were present in my hall, yes. But you will never prove that I am a magician, nor that I did anything more than accept great art from a stranger. No one in his right mind will want to prove anything else,” Krej reiterated. “I was the only one capable of organizing a fragmented kingdom. I brought forth the army. I defended our borders. Even as we speak, Lord Wendray is retaking the border city of Sambol.” He paused long enough to look his fellow councilors in the eye. “You will all stand with me because I am the most able to continue to rule.”

  Shayla roared her disapproval of that. Her wings flapped and she prepared to exit, but her tail still encircled Jaylor’s body.

  Darville wondered if he should go to his friend, see if he still lived. Why else would the dragon protect him, as she had protected Darville last winter?

  But Darville couldn’t afford to remove his attention from the Council members just yet. Krej was so very sure of himself, so very compelling in his belief that he was in the right. How could the Council disagree?

  “And what happens when the war is over or when my father dies?” Darville forced himself to think like a king, plan for the years to come and not just for the moment’s need and the grief he continually thrust aside. His spine took on the formal posture and regal bearing he had been taught as a child. It came naturally now despite his longing to bare his teeth and growl his frustration.

  He hardly noticed when Brevelan turned away from him, skirts kilted to her knees as she ran to Jaylor’s side. She would be back when he needed her. Of that he was sure.

  “We will address that issue after the war or when Darcine finally dies. He should be recovering now that Shayla is flying.” Krej gestured his dismissal of the matter.

  “We will address that issue now, si
nce you created the war.” Darville’s mouth lifted in an involuntarily growl. He needed to sink his teeth into Krej’s neck and taste the hot blood. He needed to kill!

  With great effort he mastered his bestial urges.

  “My lords,” a tired voice whispered. A man in the royal livery looked to both Darville and Krej, not knowing who should receive the message. “My lords,” he spoke a little louder to the entire company. “King Darcine is dead. He passed into the dimensions beyond at dawn yesterday.”

  Silence descended over the room with a crash. Then a hubbub of questioning voices arose like a roar. The noise was no louder than Shayla’s own cry of mourning. She let forth one mighty blast of dragon fire against the outside wall. Wood and stone exploded outward. The stench of burning Tambootie engulfed the room.

  Heavily, clumsily, Shayla lumbered toward the gateway she had made. Her wings flapped in the limited space, gathering speed.

  The wind created by her laboring pinions pushed Darville back into the crowd. He reached out a protective arm toward the dragon. Only Jaylor, still lying on the floor in the boneless heap where he had collapsed, and Brevelan kneeling at his side, remained in the center of the room.

  With one last mighty sweep of wings and tail, Shayla bellowed forth her anger and launched herself into the dark night. The other animals shook free of the last traces of magic and followed her.

  “Shayla, come back to me,” Brevelan whispered through her tears.

  Not while the evil one lives. He has killed my king.

  Darville gave the assembly a moment to think about the awesome sight of a dragon in their midst.

  “My father is dead. I am the next legal heir,” Darville announced to one and all.

  If only life were that simple, Baamin wailed to himself. “The king is dead,” he bowed his head in a moment of grief for his old friend. “There are two claimants to the throne, Darville as prince and Krej as duly elected Lord Regent. Shayla has flown away without naming her enemy and without consecrating the next king. She has gone and has taken her mates with her.” He faced the crowd and allowed the gravity of the situation to sink into their minds.