Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III

by Irene Radford

  What plot drove Zolltarn to follow Rejiia?

  Lanciar’s mouth turned dry, and he wished for another drink.

  Lanciar waited until the garishly clad Rovers in purple and red over black—obviously all members of the same clan—passed. Then he followed them.

  Sure enough, within a few moments, the Rovers caught up with Rejiia as she toured the city. She kept up the pretense of examining every detail of life trapped within the walls of this ancient volcano as if she intended to govern here—or use the denizens as an army to back her claims to more important crowns.

  She paused in front of a silk merchant. All of the goods had been stolen from a trading caravan that dared the pass between the desert kingdom of Rossemeyer and Coronnan.

  “I want black! Black with silver embroidery. This entire shipment is useless.” Rejiia spat and threw two bolts of costly fabric to the ground. She aimed a crystal-topped wand at the merchandise and set it afire.

  The tubby little merchant hastened to retrieve the jewel-toned bolts. He slapped at the flames, threw some of the ever-present dust on them, and eventually backed away from the heat generated by Rejiia’s witchfire.

  Rejiia drew back her substantial foot and kicked the man in the ribs while he bent down. She laughed heartily while he clutched his middle and moaned in pain. The nearby burning cloth sent tendrils of flame too close to his head and spread to his hair. He yelped and scuttled away.

  Lanciar sent a quick spell to negate the witchfire—only magic could douse it.

  Rejiia whirled to confront the one who dared to interfere with her games. Blotches of red on her white skin showed her outrage.

  Lanciar ducked out of sight.

  At that moment of distraction, Zolltarn physically grabbed the statue of Krej and retreated. He and his men seemed to disappear before Lanciar’s eyes.

  But Lanciar knew Zolltarn of old. The Rover used tricks that mimicked magic, requiring little actual magical energy. Here in Hanassa magicians could not tap the energy of ley lines or of dragons. Both shunned the city of outlaws.

  Lanciar allowed his eyes to cross once more and looked for the distortions in light patterns that meant stealthy movement. He had to smile at the trick played upon Rejiia. Her own arrogance had given her a false sense of security. Good. She’d be so outraged at the challenges to her authority she might drop her guard around her son.

  Ripples in the light showed all of the Rovers headed for the tunnel exit from the city. The rest of the clan waited just outside the gates with their loaded sledges, and their steeds, ready to flee.

  “I expected more subtlety from you, Zolltarn,” Lanciar chuckled.

  The Rover chieftain flashed his magnificent smile in Lanciar’s direction. Zolltarn spoke directly into Lanciar’s mind, The game is not yet finished, young soldier. But time is short. She planned to free Krej this night. The Commune cannot allow that.

  The statue of Krej passed from Rover hand to Rover hand. One wrapped it in silk. Another threw a coarse blanket over it. Then it disappeared inside the round cabinlike structure atop the lead sledge.

  Lanciar could find no trace of the statue or the life it contained with either his magic or his mundane senses.

  Rejiia whirled and watched the activity.

  “After him! I want Zolltarn’s head.” She stamped her foot, and three magicians ran to do her bidding. “One thousand gold drageen for the return of my father!” she added.

  Krej didn’t seem nearly as important to her as the blemish to her dignity.

  Rejiia’s magician entourage wrung their hands in indecision.

  Zolltarn turned and saluted Rejiia with his famous smile and a wave of his hand.

  “Damn!” Rejiia stamped her foot again.

  Was that an aftershock of the previous quake that seemed to drop the Kardia from beneath Lanciar’s feet or a measure of her anger?

  “When I retrieve my father, I’ll have my son back from his Rover wet nurse as well,” Rejiia called in the wake of her magicians.

  What?

  Lanciar burned with anger equal to Rejiia’s. Had one of the babies carried by the Rover tribe been his son?

  Rejiia drew in a deep breath, held it, and let it out through her teeth three times in preparation for a trance.

  Lanciar mimicked her actions. He’d follow both Rejiia and Zolltarn into the void and back if he had to. Quickly, he sought Zolltarn’s mind along the path of his earlier communication. This little bit of magic would drain his energy reserves, but he had to try. He needed to know the Rover’s next trick.

  He met a blankness deeper than the void. All Rovers had impressive and instinctive magical armor.

  Rejiia scrunched her face in an ugly scowl of frustration. She hadn’t been able to penetrate Zolltarn’s mind either.

  A peculiar sparkle appeared in the light surrounding the entire Rover clan and their possessions. All of them disappeared in a flash of crackling lightning.

  Wind rushed to fill the vacuum left by their transport to elsewhere. It moved so quickly and violently that bits of wood and cloth, ash, leftover food, and broken tools swirled together in a series of tornadoes.

  Lanciar threw up an arm to protect his eyes.

  Then all became quiet again.

  S’murghit! Zolltarn had mastered the transport spell. Lanciar couldn’t follow them. He didn’t know the secret of coming out the other side alive.

  Another flash of sparkling light signaled Rejiia’s disappearance.

  Double s’murghit! She knew the secret, too.

  How was he to find his son now?

  He stared at the bottom of his empty mug wishing for inspiration. “I need a drink while I think about it.”

  Chapter 5

  Jack inspected long strands of thread dyed in a rainbow of colors. “Katrina said she wanted purple dye,” he muttered to the merchant. His neck burned with embarrassment. This arcane feminine errand made him more uncomfortable than the soul-penetrating stare of a dragon.

  “This is a lovely shade of lavender,” the woman with sparkling eyes said with the slight lisp of a foreign accent. She pulled one long thread free of the bundle and held it against a black cloth for contrast.

  “Too pale.” Jack suspected his betrothed wanted her threads to match a particular shade. “Amaranth,” he said, hoping the plant matched its namesake.

  “Ah!” The merchant tossed her dark curls flirtatiously as she retrieved another thread from the bundle. This one had more pink to it and was several shades darker than the lavender.

  “That’s close. Can I see it against white?”

  “White? As in the cream of the queen’s new gown or the stark white of SeLenese lace?” Her accent came through thicker with that statement. She must come from Jihab, Jack decided.

  Her mouth twitched in laughter.

  In another time and place Jack would love to flirt with her.

  “Stark white, like lace,” he replied.

  “Is this for the little lacemaker recently taking refuge as the queen’s favorite companion?” The merchant draped the thread on top of a piece of lace. Jack recognized the pattern as similar to one Katrina was working at the moment.

  “Yes, I’m sure that’s the color she wants. Enough dye for a gown and three skeins of linen thread.” He sighed in relief, grateful this chore was complete. “I just hope I did this right.” This decision was harder than passing one of Old Baamin’s magical exams.

  He searched his scrip for the proper coin without haggling. The coin was real. Three years ago he’d paid for goods with illusory coins. He still felt guilty about it and tended to overpay.

  “Anything else I can get for you, soldier?” The woman smiled at him as she wrapped three packets of powder into a clean cloth.

  “This will do.” He wanted to hurry back to the palace and Katrina. Someone might recognize him and remember the cocky apprentice who had terrorized this market square on the day of the king’s coronation over three years ago.

  Just then, a ma
n wearing brown robes thrust passersby away from him as he descended from the arched bridge. He wrinkled his nose repeatedly, sniffing the air and holding his right arm out in front of him, fist clenched.

  “S’murghin’ Gnul,” the merchant muttered behind him. She rapidly packed up her skeins of pretty threads and folded her awning.

  “The dye?” Jack asked.

  She scuttled away without reply.

  Before Jack could search her aura for traces of magic, she disappeared around a corner. But if the man who strode purposefully in this direction was a witch-sniffer from the Gnostic Utilitarian cult, Jack dared not use any of his talent. Even reading an aura could alert some of the more sensitive sniffers.

  “You there, soldier!” The Gnul pointed at Jack.

  Jack’s armor snapped into place in instinctive fear. He put on a bland expression and faced the sniffer. “Me?” He pointed toward his own chest in silent inquiry.

  “Yes, you. Apprehend that woman. I must question her. She may be a foreign witch.” The sniffer waved obliquely in the direction the dye merchant had disappeared.

  “But she didn’t do anything but try to sell me some dye,” Jack stalled. What made this man think he had the authority to question anyone? Would he go after Katrina next because she was not born in the city and was unmarried?

  “Obey me, man! You are obligated to obey the orders of the Council of Provinces.”

  “I am obligated to obey the orders of my king and no one else, sir,” Jack replied. “I do not recognize you as a member of the Council of Provinces. Nor are you one of their retainers.” The hair on his spine and nape bristled.

  Shoppers and merchants alike began drifting closer, listening avidly.

  Jack searched their faces for any sign of an ally. No one looked in the least sympathetic. Their fear of magic gave the witch-sniffers all the authority they wanted. The Gnostic Utilitarian cult had fed that fear with horror stories. Every death within the city—murder, accident, disease, or old age—was caused by a magician’s spell. Every financial setback or change in the weather became the revenge of a disgruntled magician. To make matters worse, ritually slaughtered cats, dogs, rats, even goats and sheep were often found laid at the foot of Festival Pylons around the city as if for a magical sacrifice.

  Jack knew no magician would leave evidence lying around so openly, even if they needed the blood of the dying animal to fuel a magical talent.

  But the Gnuls didn’t care about truth, only about instilling fear in the hearts of the innocent so that the cult could take control of their lives.

  Nervously, he fingered the short sword at his hip, wishing the weapon were his staff instead. He knew how to defend himself with a magician’s basic tool. He’d worn the blade and guard’s uniform barely a full moon.

  “Are you protecting the witch, young man?” The Gnul continued to press closer to Jack.

  The crowd grumbled disapproval of all witches. Two men threw stones where the dye merchant had had her awning. One of them whistled very close to Jack’s ear.

  “What witch?” Jack faced the accuser, trying to keep his fear out of his voice and posture.

  The witch-sniffer had gone from wanting to question the woman to actively accusing her without benefit of trial or evidence. Every accused had the right to a public trial. He wondered if the Gnuls and their witch-sniffers ever bothered with the legal process.

  The crowd went silent and closed ranks in a near perfect circle around Jack and the Gnul.

  “The woman who just ran away. The woman you were doing business with. What were you trying to buy from her? A love potion, perhaps, or poison to use on our king?”

  Jack allowed a laugh to explode at the nonsense. “All I wanted was some dye for my betrothed to use on her wedding gown.”

  The crowd didn’t think this was funny. Angry mutters began rising. The sound nearly drowned out the sound of Jack’s heart pounding too rapidly. One stooped, old woman licked her lips. “Gonna have us a witch-burning,” she sniggered.

  “Seize this man for aiding a witch!” the Gnul shouted.

  “Not again,” Jack sighed. The last time he’d come to this market square three years ago he’d fled a man bent on destroying him. Must he do so again?

  Two burly men grabbed Jack’s arms.

  Deftly Jack twisted and shifted his weight. His captors lost their grip. While they stumbled forward, he ducked and slid backward. He’d learned something useful during his three years of slavery in King Simeon’s mines.

  “Catch that man, he’s a witch!”

  “Not this time, witch-sniffer.” Jack ran. He knew this city from years of scavenging the streets before Baamin and the University of Magicians recognized his potential. He knew places . . .

  Before he could change his mind, he dove into the river. Cold water closed over his head. He swam deeper, praying to the Stargods that he had enough breath to take him beyond sight of the witch-sniffer.

  Lungs burning and eyes smarting, he broke the surface well downstream from the market island. He heard the tramp of many feet on a nearby bridge as the witch-sniffer raised the hue and cry. Coronnan City was made up of hundreds of little river islands connected by bridges.

  Within minutes, the current took Jack past a large residential island. The Gnuls would have to wind their way through twisting alleyways to traverse the island. Then they’d have to cross another bridge to catch up to him.

  He recognized the blue-painted rowboat tied to the next dock. “Still using that leaking scow, Aquilla?” he asked the absent Bay Pilot who had befriended him many years ago.

  He grabbed the gunwale and heaved himself into the little craft. It rocked, threatening to dump him back into the water. He gasped for air and willed the boat to steady. First one leg and then the other over the side. At last he sprawled facedown in the bottom of the boat.

  Then, carefully, he sat up and reached for the oars. A deep growl stopped him. A white-and-brown water dog faced him, teeth bared.

  “I think I have a problem.”

  Wind howled through the trees like a lost soul moaning over separation from its body.

  Robb ducked deeper into his cloak.

  Marcus threw his cloak hood back and shook his hair free of restraint, glorying in the power of the storm.

  “Typical,” Robb muttered to himself. “I’m miserable, and he can’t get enough of this storm.” He plodded a few more steps in Marcus’ wake, searching the path for signs of habitation. With each step he dug his staff into the mud. Maybe grounding his tool of focus in the kardia would help him see around the rain.

  Too quickly, he chilled and lost strength. The little bit of magic drained him.

  He caught up to Marcus and shouted into his companion’s ear, “We’ve got to find shelter. Put up your hood. You’ll catch your death of cold! This storm is getting worse.” He huddled into himself, trying to keep his body warm. Rain dripped from the edge of his hood onto his chest where the cloak gaped.

  Marcus shook his head. “The storm will clear. We have time. With luck we’ll be through the pass and out of the rain by nightfall.”

  They had decided to try passing into SeLenicca in a more obscure location, well south of the armies. Their trek had not been easy, plagued with spoiled supplies, poor hunting, foul weather, and general bad luck.

  But Marcus hadn’t allowed the miserable conditions to dampen his good spirits. That made Robb grumble all the more.

  His feet slid out from beneath him, and he landed flat on his face.

  Lightning crackled around them, playing bizarre patterns of light across the thick gray clouds. Marcus laughed out loud at the energy singeing the air. “This is almost as good as gathering dragon magic!”

  “Look, there’s a light.” Robb pointed with his staff toward the meager flicker atop a wooded hill off to their right. The flames burned blue and red rather than natural green.

  “It’s witchlight! We can spend the evening with another magician,” Marcus chortled.

/>   “We’re mighty close to the border with SeLenicca. I’m not sure I want to meet another magician around here. No telling if he’s friendly or not.” Robb shivered as he stood up and tried rearranging his cloak. His hood slipped back in the process. Now he was drenched on the inside as well as without. “Never know it’s nearly summer around here. The loss of the dragons combined with the intensive battle magic at the other pass seems to have made a climactic shift.”

  “Between the two of us, we can take on any magician even without dragons. As long as they don’t surprise us. The storm is giving me power.”

  “Dragons,” Robb grumbled. “If we weren’t chasing invisible dragons, we’d be home beside a nice warm fire with a mug of spiced wine. Despite the seeming benevolence of dragon magic as opposed to solitary magic, I sometimes think the politics surrounding dragons makes our entire quest worthless.”

  “If we weren’t here, we’d be freezing our bums off as we spy through every corner of Coronnan for Jaylor and the Commune of Magicians. Stop grumbling. Let’s see what’s up. You said yourself, we need shelter.” Marcus marched forward.

  “Admit it, Marcus, your infamous good luck has finally run out,” Robb grumbled. “I can’t remember being colder, wetter, or hungrier on any of our previous quests. Maybe it’s time to start planning ahead a little better and making preparations for the next disaster.”

  “Stop being pessimistic. Of course my luck is holding. There’s a light. That means someone with a fire and shelter to keep the fire going. We’ll be fine for tonight. Then we can start out new and fresh in the morning, when the storm passes.”

  “If it passes. Let’s just hope that unnatural light isn’t marsh gas or a ghost,” Robb said. As they pushed up the hill, he checked his dagger and shifted his grip on his staff for better defense.

  “We’ve traveled the length and breadth of Coronnan for three years now while the Commune has remained in exile, and you always look for the worst to happen,” Marcus said lightly. “And it never does.”

  “I don’t have your luck. I have found that preparation and forethought work better than waiting to see what happens. Besides, we’re too close to the border with SeLenicca. No guarantees that your luck will continue once we cross the border and run out of ley lines to fuel our magic.”