Not you, Thorny. I’d never sacrifice you, he soothed his familiar. Moncriith is hanging around. He’ll slaughter anyone or anything to bolster his magic. But I won’t. All I have to do is prick my hand a little. If he had to resort to blood magic, maybe he should use one of Thorny’s spines. Involving his familiar might increase the effectiveness of the hideous procedure.
The sentry burped loudly. Stale ale fumes wafted past Powwell’s nose. He grimaced and held his breath until the man responsible for the security of this portion of the city staggered past, hiccuping and bleary-eyed. From his ragged clothes Powwell surmised he must be one of the common road bandits. The patrols were bands of outlaws who paid part of their rent to Yaassima with sentry duty. Rarely did they perform their jobs sober.
After another one hundred heartbeats, Powwell resumed his trek across the city to the palace—which was little more than another jumble of mud huts piled on top of each other on the outside. Rumor claimed the palace had been carved out of a vast cave system and reached far and deep into the ancient mountain.
So far the Justice Bell had not tolled within the converted temple to Simurgh, summoning the populace to witness the Kaalipha’s judgment. Kalen wouldn’t be executed yet.
Powwell had to arrange the escape tonight. Yaassima preferred dawn executions.
At the seventh and last outcropping of volcanic rock, Powwell waited for the next sentry to pass. The guards were more alert here, members of Televarn’s clan. Rovers seldom drank enough to dull their senses. This man had to be neutralized quickly. The sentry’s next circuit would take him to Televarn’s slave pens where he would make a head count. Any other night the chore would have fallen to a different enclave of outlaws and Powwell could have slipped past his sleepy guards at any time.
He couldn’t wait another night. The Kaalipha had taken Kalen.
Using all of his senses, physical and magical, Powwell listened to the sounds of the dirt and rocks shifting and whispering to themselves in the nighttime chill. When he heard a pebble roll and strike another, he knew the sentry approached. Three breaths later a shadow within a shadow shifted.
Powwell rolled his balance to the balls of his feet. The sentry probably weighed twice Powwell’s slim adolescent body and stood a full head taller. Powwell needed the advantage of surprise and speed. His magic was too limited in this desert. No ley lines crossed through the ancient volcano, and the dragons shied away from the area. He had no source of power other than his own growing body. Rovers had their rituals, which Powwell didn’t know or understand. The Bloodmages drew strength from pain. Powwell would save that for a last resort.
He closed his fingers around a jagged rock he’d tucked into his pocket this morning. With every fragment of strength he possessed, he threw the rock at the passing sentry.
A grunt followed by a thud against the baked mud street told him his aim had been true. Only one more obstacle to overcome, the very alert team of guards at the palace portal.
Powwell paused long enough to thump the Rover more soundly on the head, making certain he wouldn’t wake up soon. From the squishy sound of the rock hitting flesh, the guard might never wake again. Televarn would seek revenge. But Televarn was already Powwell’s enemy.
Then he grabbed the man’s sword and spear. He hefted the weight of each weapon. The sword seemed awkward and heavy in his grasp. It would hinder his stealthy movements and weigh him down if he needed to run. The spear, though, was made of wood, long and slender; just the weight and length of a fighting staff. He ran both of his hands the full length of the shaft, hoping he could imprint it with some of his magic personality through such brief contact. This was a tool he knew how to use.
He pointed the staff at the entrance to the lower levels of the palace, pushing his Sight beyond Sight along the smooth grain of the wood. The fibers within the core of the shaft vibrated in tune with his magic. Details jumped to the fore of his vision. He saw the precise outline of the cave mouth, lopsided, jagged, obscured outcroppings that could knock an unwary man senseless. Inside, one man fed the small fire contained within a circle of stones. The other paced from the fire to the entrance and back again, brushing past a gaudy tapestry on the right-hand wall.
Powwell’s instincts told him the tapestry was a blind. The passageway behind it led to a dead end, possibly through several lethal traps. A separate cave mouth with a heavily guarded gate off to the left was the only access to the inner caves and the palace above. This smaller cave housed only the Kaalipha’s brothel.
While the pacing guard checked the narrow opening to the brothel, Powwell crept closer. He gripped his newly acquired staff tightly, channeling his magic through the wood. A barely visible cloud of gray mist surrounded him. With luck, he’d be invisible to the guards. He couldn’t tell for sure. He’d never tried this spell before without Kalen at his side, guiding him through it.
Holding his breath, he stepped into the cave mouth. Neither guard stirred. Powwell circled the perimeter, careful to stay between the guard and the light of the fire. No sense in betraying his presence with a moving shadow.
He slid into a short corridor. The sound of soft snores and restless bodies shifting beneath bedcovers greeted him. Now all he had to do was find Myri and Kalen among the dozen women Kaalipha Yaassima kept for the guards’ pleasure, and an equal number of children belonging to those women. Myri should be among them. He hadn’t seen her since the Kaalipha had removed her from Televarn’s custody three weeks ago. She must have had the baby the first night here. Would the Kaalipha send her to be made available to the guards so soon? She had to be in this dormitory. Except for Yaassima’s private maid, women weren’t allowed to sleep in the palace proper. The Kaalipha surrounded herself only with men she could manipulate and control.
With his back against the rock wall of the inner corridor, Powwell sidled into the women’s chambers. He dropped the spell of invisibility before it drained too much of his energy and waited for his eyes to adjust to the minimal light cast by the still active fire in the central hearth of the cave.
Whoever had built up the fire might still be awake. Powwell froze, willing himself to blend into the rock wall. He scanned the dark forms upon the scattered pallets for signs of movement or a glimmer of Myri’s white-blond hair reflecting the firelight. One of the figures, larger than the rest, grunted and shifted. The blanket rose up.
A lump choked Powwell’s throat. He heard his heart pounding in his ears so loudly the women must surely awaken at the echoes.
“Got to get back to work, love.” The rising figure resolved into a naked man. He pinched his partner’s bare backside and replaced the blanket. Then, as he reached for his discarded clothes on the floor, his gaze locked with Powwell’s. They both froze in place.
Chapter 9
“Fifty ships to sabotage and barely one hundred obstacles embedded into the mudflats,” Nimbulan pounded the ramparts of the old keep with his fist. “Not enough. Not nearly enough.”
Exhausted and filthy with soot and sweat, he watched the small fishing fleet, King Quinnault’s poor excuse for a navy, launch into the swollen tide.
Not once during this very long day of frenetic activity had he forgotten that Amaranth had died trying to summon help for Myri. She must be in terrible danger for the familiar to leave her.
He needed to be with his wife, protect her, comfort her in her grief.
Myri would feel Amaranth’s death, possibly try to share it. That agony would only compound whatever she suffered in Hanassa. He had to go to her. Then what?
“At least I know she’s alive,” he reminded himself. The slender cord of silver magic connecting his heart to hers pulsed with life. Amaranth had restored it somehow.
Myrilandel lived, in Hanassa, the hidden city where nightmares were born.
Nimbulan rested his head on his arm. Fatigue weighed heavily on his eyelids. He didn’t dare give in to it. In a few moments full dark would be upon them, and he’d have work to do.
Behi
nd him, the glowing sun sank below the rim of the western mountain rage. With the loss of heat and light from the sun, an easterly breeze sprang to life.
Out in the bay, fifty ships hoisted sail, catching the increasing wind that now favored their invasion of Coronnan City and the rich river delta.
Nimbulan focused on the small boat leading the defense of Coronnan. King Quinnault’s pale blond head shone in the dying sunlight as he stood in the prow of the boat he shared with Journeyman Magician Rollett and a fisherman, a beacon to rally his people.
Lord Konnaught wasn’t in the second boat, as Quinnault had ordered. Where did the brat get to? He was probably tucked snugly into bed with a hot posset on this cold and clear night.
You shouldn’t be out there, Your Grace. Konnaught is right this once. The kingdom can’t spare you. Nimbulan hoped his telepathic call reached the king. Quinnault had so little natural magic, the chances of him hearing, much less heeding, the message were slim. The dragons were the only ones who could engage his telepathy—and they had left Coronnan.
The Covenant is broken.
Nimbulan hoped he had enough tricks up his sleeves to convince the mundane lords he hadn’t yet resorted to illegal solitary magic in order to hold the kingdom together. He hoped he had enough strength, magical and physical, to get through the night.
The fisherman who guided Quinnault’s boat rowed eagerly for the rapidly approaching fleet. A large wave lifted them nearly level with a larger ship’s deck. The tide neared flood stage; another hour would mark the highest water.
Aboard the looming vessels in the invasion fleet, sailors leaned over the rails, pointing and laughing at the myriad small boats sent to deter them.
Armor, men. Don’t forget the armor! Nimbulan ordered the magicians among the fishermen. The threads from his cloak and splinters from his staff kept the lines of communication open since they didn’t have any of the communal dragon magic left.
Two heartbeats later, the invading sailors pelted the small boats with ballast rocks, spears, and debris. Much of it bounced off bubbles of magical armor and fell harmlessly into the waves. Two boats wobbled precariously as the flying objects forced men to lose control of their oars.
Nimbulan sent hasty reminders to magicians in nearby boats to protect the faltering ones. They couldn’t afford to lose a single man or boat.
The glowing reservoir of witchfire in the cauldron beside him picked out the sparkling magical shields now in place over each of the boats.
One of the foreign vessels listed badly to port as it scraped the first of the submerged trees. Immediately Quinnault, in the lead boat, let loose a flaming arrow into that ship’s sails. Dozens more archers followed his lead.
The ship veered off course. The rushing ride embedded the keel in the sucking mud. The ship’s captain frantically swung the wheel, trying to regain his course. The rudder jammed and refused to budge.
“One down, forty-nine to go.” Nimbulan dropped his arm, and Lyman released the catapult that dominated the keep’s courtyard. A great ball of green witchfire flew through the air, almost faster than the eye could follow. As it sped over the bay, the millions of flamelets that made up the mass separated but did not lose intensity. Sails burst into flame when the witchfire found additional fuel in the canvas sails.
Three ships lost control of their sails in an instant. They, too, ran aground as all hands rushed to douse flames that could not be extinguished by mundane means.
Behind the vessels, half the tiny fishing boats moved close to the sterns of the ships still under control and heading for the islands. Nimbulan watched Quinnault fling a net outward, toward a ship’s rudder. The net spread and landed in perfect position to tangle in the steering rod.
The king’s long hours of fishing paid off. He hauled the net tight. The ship swung sideways to the waves. The helmsman spun the wheel uselessly, further tangling the net.
Other fisherman weren’t so lucky. They needed the extra guidance of the magicians before their nets ensnared more rudders.
Nimbulan signaled for another catapult. Lord Konnaught appeared beside the war engine, seemingly rested, clean, and well fed when every everyone else showed the effects of a long day of hard work. Nimbulan repeated the signal. The boy pointedly turned his back on the magician. He spoke quietly to a grimy man wearing a blacksmith’s apron. The catapult remained firmly in place.
Angrily, Nimbulan sent a line of communication to Lyman who monitored the cauldron of witchfire. The old magician limped over to the catapult. He grabbed Konnaught’s shoulder with his extra long fingers and forcibly turned the boy around.
“I do not take orders from underlings,” Konnaught protested.
Lyman tightened his grip and propelled the rebellious young man to the catapult. Konnaught jerked his hand forward—as if acting only under compulsion—and snapped the trigger. Then he looked up at Nimbulan. Hate filled his expression.
Nimbulan couldn’t spare him a thought.
Fire filled the sky. The nearest sail exploded in heat and unnatural light, dropping living flames upon the deck. Sailors and heavily armed mercenaries scrambled away from the blaze. Some jumped ship. A few remained behind, beating uselessly at the fire with heavy tarps and water.
“Witchfire is created by magic. Only magic can douse it,” Nimbulan recited to himself. Silently he mourned the men who screamed out their dying agony aboard the ship. Some of the men fled to the sea. They flailed about in the heaving waves. Heavy robes and armor dragged them down. The deepening tide that allowed ships to sail through the mudflats now made the water deep enough to drown the men. The storm that pushed the tide intensified the swells.
The witchfire continued to burn underwater. The few men who managed to shed shields and swords and all-concealing robes couldn’t shed the flames that burned clear to the bone.
Nimbulan bit his lip, suppressing his own agony as many men died. Each death diminished him as a man because he was the instrument of their destruction. He’d organized similar scenes too often. There had to be a better way.
Once again he had proved himself the best Battlemage in all of Coronnan. Hundreds of men died at his command.
Enemies, he told himself.
(Men,) a voice in the back of his head reminded him.
“Never again,” he vowed. “I will not do this again. Somehow we must find peace from invasion as we found an end to the Great Wars of Disruption. I have to make Battlemages obsolete.”
(You need Myrilandel to complete yourself and your work.)
Myri trudged into the Hall of Justice on the ground floor of Yaassima’s palace. She stifled a yawn behind her hand. True sleepiness, not a stupor induced by drugs this time. She tucked away the tiny vial of powder she’d stolen from Haanna, Yaassima’s maid, before the woman could sprinkle it over Myri’s supper. She had substituted plain salt for the drugs. Her meal had tasted vile with too much salt, and she’d been thirsty all night. But her mind was clear of the drugs.
Myri’s arms felt strangely empty without Baby Amaranth. She’d placed the sleeping infant into a back cradle while she and Kalen answered the peremptory summons of the Justice Bell. She would never leave Amaranth alone with Maia, who now slept on a pallet at the foot of Myri’s bed.
The Rover woman had not roused in answer to the loud bell. She and Myri hadn’t exchanged a single word since her arrival.
A sense of dread pushed away the last of Myri’s predawn sleepiness. A crowd of men in various states of undress huddled near the doorway, awaiting Kaalipha Yaassima. Their unease became Myri’s as she absorbed their fears.
She recognized some of the elite guard who owed loyalty only to Yaassima. The Kaalipha tended to overlook infractions of her arbitrary rules among these guards. The same action from someone else brought swift execution.
Myri’s attention centered on a slouched figure in the center of the group. A man on either side seemed to be holding him up by the arms. His head bent nearly to his waist, hiding his face. Myri knew
the pain in his belly where he’d been punched with a fist or the butt end of a spear.
Behind her, Kalen gasped and clung for balance to a tapestry wall covering. “Powwell.” She mouthed the name.
Myri snapped her attention back to the prisoner. Other than the auburn-tinged hair, she had no clues to the man’s identity. Too much of her talent was bound up in her baby to extend beyond basic emotions broadcast by others. She trusted Kalen’s instincts.
She had all her children in view. Now all she had to do was lead them out of Hanassa. Getting Powwell safely away from Yaassima would be the hard part.
‘What crime did this boy commit?” Yaassima appeared on the dais without warning. She hadn’t been there a heartbeat ago. Where did she come from?
The Kaalipha clapped her hands. The torches dimmed. Panels in the ceiling came to life, replacing the flickering green flames with a brighter, more golden glow.
“How’d she do that?” Kalen asked, eyes wide.
“I don’t know, and she won’t tell,” Myri replied, keeping her eyes on Powwell. Other than the ache in his belly he seemed healthy and fit.
Where were the exits? She marked each visible portal into the Justice Hall.
“Tell the man’s crime so that I can dispense swift justice.” Yaassima’s voice swelled to fill the room over and above the babble of fearful men.
“Kaalipha.” A man stepped forward and knelt, touching his forehead to the floor.
Myri recognized him as Nastfa, the guard who had carried her to Yaassima’s suite that first day in Hanassa. He wore black trews less ragged than some inhabitants of Hanassa, and an almost clean linen shirt. If he dared speak, he must have some authority over the men assembled behind them. Myri already knew that Yaassima trusted him more than most of the elite corps that always surrounded her. Some of them were fully clothed, as if they had just come from guard duty. The others wore bits and pieces of hastily donned uniforms.
“Speak, Nastfa.” Yaassima granted him permission to continue.
The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II Page 47