Dragon Nimbus Novels: Vol II, The

by Irene Radford

  Lord Kammeryl might even be grateful for the information and grant Moncriith the right to winter in the fortress or one of the villages.

  “There are a few late leaves here, sir. And some Timboor. The berries have almost as much of the essential oils as the leaves.” A quiet, authoritative voice broke the silence of the night.

  “Only the leaves carry enough untainted power for my experiments. We must fill the baskets with leaves and come back for the Timboor.” That voice took on an edge of impatience. Or was it desperation?

  Glee lightened Moncriith’s heart. He recognized the two men now. Nimbulan and Ackerly. Nimbulan, who had had him exiled from the army camp in order to protect Myrilandel. Ackerly, who had defied orders and given him provisions.

  Where was Myrilandel now? Why was Nimbulan stealing from his own lord?

  He’d get answers later. This opportunity to rid Coronnan of one more of Myrilandel’s consorts was too good to waste. Nimbulan’s death would decrease her power and make her vulnerable when she finally came to this grove of the Tambootie to feed.

  Moncriith rose to his full height. His knife fit his hand perfectly. He reversed his grip to strike with the heavy hilt.

  Blood would attract a horde of demons. He could draw power from Nimbulan’s pain and death, but he wasn’t certain it would be enough to overcome more than one demon at a time until Myrilandel was dead.

  He wouldn’t have to kill Nimbulan here and now, merely rob him of his senses with a single mighty blow to his head, then deliver him to Lord Kammeryl.

  “Run, Ackerly. It’s that crazed Bloodmage again. He has a knife!” Nimbulan screamed.

  Moncriith followed the sounds of running feet. Nimbulan’s fear fed Moncriith’s magic and trued his aim.

  Ackerly dodged right, off the narrow path. He crouched beside a massive trunk, hoping his dark cloak would shield him from view.

  “You can’t escape me, Nimbulan!” Moncriith dashed past him, knife raised high, hilt forward.

  Surprise destroyed Ackerly’s caution. With the knife reversed, Moncriith must intend to merely stun his victim. Would he then consign Nimbulan’s partially conscious body to the flames? The hideous, painful death made Ackerly shudder.

  “I know the demon that leads you. I know all of her tricks,” Moncriith bellowed. His rage burned sparks at the end of his fingers where they were clenched around the knife, and on the heels of his feet when they struck the ground.

  Ackerly examined the details of his glimpse of Moncriith, committing them to memory. The Bloodmage let his temper cloud his judgment. He was also too fond of announcing his intentions and motives to the entire world before acting. Over the years Ackerly had stored a great deal of information within his capacious memory. The right information was as good as gold. Who would pay to know Moncriith’s weakness?

  He never had enough gold.

  The sound of the knife shattering against a tree trunk reverberated through the grove of Tambootie. Ackerly looked toward the source of the sound, bringing as much magic as he could to his vision.

  Moncriith stood trembling a dozen paces away. His knife had indeed shattered and lay in pieces around his feet. He crossed and massaged his arms with kneading fingers, probably from the shock of his blow. He shook his head as if clearing it of the rage that gripped him. Reason returned to his eyes and posture. Quickly he picked up a fallen branch and tested the weight in his hand.

  Where was Nimbulan? Ackerly hunted the night with anxious eyes. Another crouched figure shifted in the gloom three trees to the left and slightly behind Moncriith.

  Ackerly adjusted his magic vision to survey his oldest friend. No visible signs of injury, merely the trembling of fear and Tambootie deprivation. Nimbulan needed a fresh dose of the drug soon. His magic grew more dependent on the artificial enhancement every day. Ackerly made sure he had ever increasing daily doses to feed that addiction. Even when Nimbulan forgot to ask for it.

  Thank the Stargods, he, Ackerly, had never succumbed to the temptations of the Tambootie. After his trial by smoke at the age of thirteen, he’d known he couldn’t weave the Kardia into his spells and Tambootie did nothing to increase his powers.

  Nimbulan had grown to depend upon the drug for more than just magic. In the desperation of battles that taxed his endurance beyond safe limits, the Tambootie was the only thing that kept his magic alive, and therefore ensured his own safety during and after the battle.

  The drug also kept Nimbulan oblivious to mundane matters like the cost of provisions. If he didn’t count his coins carefully, Ackerly wasn’t about to tell the Battlemage how many coins he skimmed from the budget.

  Ackerly could tell by the way Nimbulan cowered beside the tree rather than facing his enemy with spells and guile that a lack of the Tambootie in his system left him vulnerable, defenseless.

  “Sir, are you all right? Where are you, sir? I can’t find you.” Ackerly shuffled his feet and threw his voice ten paces ahead of Moncriith. A trick that looked like magic but wasn’t.

  Moncriith followed the diversion away from Nimbulan’s crouched form. Ackerly crept silently over to Nimbulan’s side.

  Nimbulan stood and stepped toward Moncriith. He raised his left palm in preparation for a spell. Ackerly grasped the Senior Magician’s shoulders. Nimbulan stared at him with wide, questioning eyes. Ackerly pressed a finger to his lips, signaling silence. Keeping one hand on Nimbulan’s shoulder, he guided the taller man away from Moncriith and his heavy club.

  Nimbulan stumbled on some unseen obstacle. Ackerly smiled to himself as he slipped his arm around Nimbulan’s waist in support. Better to make the Senior Magician think himself weaker than he was. Together they slipped back into the forest darkness, toward their waiting steeds.

  The sound of running feet brought them up short.

  “Come back here, you cowardly magician! I must cleanse you of demon possession!” Moncriith yelled. “Face the wrath of the Stargods and know the truth. Demons lead you into battle. Demons guide your every step. Demons rule Coronnan.” His words echoed against the trunks of the Tambootie trees.

  Firelight glimmered in the near distance as men ran toward Moncriith.

  “What’s this? Who are you?” Men wearing half armor in the dark green and maroon of Lord Kammeryl d’Astrismos’ colors moved into view. They held their torches high, seeking the source of the disturbance.

  “Come back here, Nimbulan. We haven’t finished this!” Moncriith’s cry broke off. “Let go of me, you imbecile. He’s getting away. He’s stealing Tambootie from your lord.”

  “There’s no one there, you crazy preacher. You’re chasing shadows. Come with us to report to Lord Kammeryl.”

  “We haven’t time. Demons are shielding Nimbulan. They’re helping him get away.”

  “You’re crazier than I thought. Now will you come quiet or do we tie you up and drag you to Lord Kammeryl’s dungeons?”

  The sound of a struggle, grunts and moans, slaps, and a heavy body hitting the ground urged Ackerly to move faster toward the steeds.

  He counted an officer and ten men. Enough men and weapons to contain Moncriith. Unless Moncriith had become so crazed he ignored his own safety.

  “We’ll be safe now, Nimbulan,” Ackerly said when they had silently led their steeds nearly a league away before mounting.

  No reply. Nimbulan stood beside his mount, swaying—with indecision, fatigue, or reaction?

  “I’ll find you Tambootie, sir. We can buy it at the market in Sambol. Then you can finish your experiments.” He offered his friend cupped hands to help him mount.

  “Buy it? I used most of my gold to buy furniture and supplies for the school.” Nimbulan stared at Ackerly’s offered hands as if uncertain what to do with the gift.

  “I’ll find a way to get some. Just leave everything to me.”

  “I thought you condemned conventional magic, Moncriith. And yet you trespassed into my Tambootie grove—the trees that feed magicians,” Lord Kammeryl d’Astrismos said i
n weary tones that barely reached the seven people standing around his chair of office. “My men found your camp. You have been there for some time. Since you condemn the Tambootie as demon food, I thought you would try to fell the trees, not live amongst them.”

  The guards who had arrested Moncriith had roused the lord from his bed to deal with the crime of trespass and resisting arrest.

  Moncriith stood before the lord, unbowed by the heavy, and totally unnecessary, chains on his wrists, ankles, and neck. He had no intention of leaving Castle Krej, the ancestral fortress of Kammeryl d’Astrismos, until spring.

  The lord glared at him from beneath heavy eyelids. Clad only in an ornate dressing gown of red-gold brocade that matched his hair to perfection—too perfectly—Kammeryl lounged against his chair of office, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee. His bare leg was revealed to his upper thigh. He wore no undergarments.

  A pretty boy of about twelve stood to Kammeryl’s right, his arm resting casually on the arm of the chair. His blond curls dangled delicately around his shoulders. He appeared to wear only an oversized shirt that hung below his knees and well past his wrists, as if he’d grabbed Kammeryl’s garment instead of his own. The lord caressed the smooth skin of the boy’s hand and arm as he waited for an explanation.

  Moncriith didn’t feel like explaining himself. Let the guards who had arrested him speak if they must. He needed all his energy to contain his shivers and the fiery ache on his left cheek that now spread from the top of his head to his collarbone. The first sharp intensity was gone. He couldn’t use this aching aftermath to fuel a spell of compulsion.

  “There were others in the grove, my lord,” the eldest of the guards, a man of no more than seventeen summers, said. “I believe they were demons in search of the Tambootie. They disappeared in a puff of smoke, as if they’d never been there.” The guard crossed and flapped his wrists. His smooth cheeks flared with heightened color.

  Moncriith hid a smile. The guard didn’t know the truth. No one, demon or magician, could transport a living being safely. Only inanimate objects survived the trauma of such a spell. Let the guard’s fears and superstitious awe work for Moncriith. He could feed their imaginations with horror stories of what demons really did to a man’s soul. Given a winter in their company, he’d have them organizing his followers for him next spring.

  Moncriith stared at Kammeryl until the lord’s gaze locked with his own. “I find it strange that your own Battlemage must steal Tambootie from you, sire.” He added the royal title as a bonus to the lord’s ambitions. “If you are not giving the weed to Nimbulan and his assistant, perhaps you, too, recognize the evil inherent in the tree that feeds only demons and their ilk.”

  Lord Kammeryl threw back his head and laughed long and loud. “So Nimbulan is reduced to theft of the Tambootie to feed his powers. I seem to have gotten rid of him at the right time. He is getting old. His abilities as a mage are declining. If the Tambootie kills him, I won’t have to have his replacement assassinate him.”

  “If I replace him as your chief mage, I can purge your army and your household of the same demons who infest Nimbulan. You cannot rule a united Coronnan until all the demons are removed.” Moncriith pitched his voice to soothe and calm. Given enough time, he’d have the lord believing a witchhunt for Myrilandel and her demon consorts was his own idea and had not come from Moncriith.

  “You may stay the winter and throw the few spells I need for communication and preventing plagues. Time enough to find a better magician in the spring. I intend to rule a united Coronnan with or without demons.” Kammeryl yawned and rose from his chair. He placed an affectionate hand on his companion’s feminine locks, then let it fall to the boy’s shoulder and hip, caressing at each stage of exploration. Kammeryl wandered out the back door of the audience room, preoccupied with the boy.

  “A meal and a bed would be welcome, brothers.” Moncriith slouched as the guards unlocked his chains. He allowed his fatigue and hunger to show in his face as he looked at the threadbare patches on his red robe—the same cut and color as a priest’s.

  His followers didn’t need to know that he had been exiled from the temple because he would only fuel his magic with blood. The respect people gave him upon first glance of his vestments opened their ears to his persuasions. His followers turned away from the temple as soon as they learned how the priests and magicians harbored demons like Myrilandel.

  “There’s always a pot of soup and bread in the kitchen.” The young soldier gestured toward the low doorway that led to the stone kitchen addition attached to the keep.

  These guards were no different from the peasants Moncriith usually dealt with. Tomorrow he’d ingratiate himself into the good graces of the steward who supervised the servants. Tonight he would meditate on how Nimbulan might be killed without casting blame on anyone Moncriith found valuable.

  Chapter 14

  Timboor sang through Nimbulan’s blood. The fruit of the Tambootie tree gave a crystalline sparkle to the auras of each piece of wooden furniture in his room. The simple lines of cot, chest, and table glowed with new elegance.

  The nerve endings in his fingers and toes burned with new sensitivity. He drew power from the energy of wood, fabric, and stone. Different power from what the Tambootie leaves allowed him to tap, but power all the same.

  He reached out to caress the aura above his worktable. The yellow-white energy fed him in ways food neglected.

  He needed nothing more. Thank the Stargods Ackerly had thought to collect some timboor in his pockets the other night. Perhaps this kind of magic energy that allowed him to see everything so clearly was the key to combining magic. If he could see the individual components of an aura or, better yet, mesh his thoughts precisely with another man’s, they could join and magnify their powers.

  Carefully, Nimbulan folded the power around him in a spell of listening. The thoughts of Haakkon, Powwell, and Zane whipped through his mind with the lightning speed of their youth. Thoughts of lessons and chores, of the mysteries of women, and mixed resentment and awe of their masters. They asked themselves questions about magic and about life.

  Too unformed and unskilled. The boys couldn’t help him now.

  Nimbulan sent his spell deeper into the old monastery, seeking Maalin and Jaanus, the two apprentices in the library. Their thoughts lingered on the smell of baking bread and the stacks of books yet to be cataloged.

  For once, Quinnault de Tanos had not joined them.

  Nimbulan found himself missing the lord’s enthusiasm and his company. He reached out with his spell, seeking the brightly colored thoughts of the man whose patronage made the school possible.

  He’d never managed to penetrate de Tanos’ thoughts in his presence. If he could break through the lord’s natural armor with the help of timboor, then he could read any man. That reading—rather a blending of thoughts and auras—now seemed essential to joining magic. Quinnault’s thoughts remained elusive.

  He needed familiarity. Ackerly. His oldest friend. They’d studied and worked together since Nimbulan was ten and Ackerly was twelve. Ackerly’s mind and actions were almost as familiar to Nimbulan as his own.

  Out of the stone buildings, across the wide courtyard to the beaten path and the causeway between two islands. The tide was full and the chain of boulders and land covered with water. The physical obstacles did not stop Nimbulan’s questing magic. He flew across to the big island with its farmhouse and fields and the squat stone keep where de Tanos made his home now.

  From the big island he wandered up the River Coronnan, seeing every twist and cove with his mind as if his body truly floated above the surging river. Past the battlefield where he’d had to kill Keegan to save two armies. That wound still pained him, more so than his guilt for deserting Druulin, Boojlin, and Caasser the night before they died in battle on the same field eighteen years ago. If he and Ackerly had stayed, would they have found a way to control the awful spell that destroyed everything in its path? Or would
they, too, have died in screaming, burning agony?

  No answers came to him from generations of ghosts that haunted the battlefield. He traveled on, upriver.

  Many leagues distant, Nimbulan paused his seeking magic at the river gate of Sambol. Perched at the head of navigable waters on the river, at the base of a mountain pass and juncture of several trade roads, Sambol played host to merchants from throughout the known world. Anything could be purchased in the market stalls of the city, be it legal, moral, or not.

  This was where Ackerly had come to purchase a new supply of Tambootie for Nimbulan and his students.

  From his distant listening post, Nimbulan scanned the myriad minds of the city for a familiar syntax, inflection, and accent. He heard jewelers from Jehab, lace traders from SeLenicca, captains of mercenaries from Rossemeyer, and spice brokers from Varnicia. At last he picked up the educated tones of a magician haggling with a pottery maker in a small booth next to a shadowy alley. Any number of substances could be secreted in one of those utilitarian pots. Including the precious Tambootie.

  Ackerly finished his bargaining. He withdrew five gold coins from the pouch Nimbulan had given him, one at a time as if counting and regretting every coin. The last of Nimbulan’s savings.

  Nimbulan watched as his assistant brushed his hand across the side of his face as if swatting a fly between placing each coin into the merchant’s hand. As the last coin exchanged hands, Ackerly slapped his pockets as if searching for something. An expression of alarm spread across his features.

  Nimbulan chuckled inwardly. Ackerly was probably presenting some ploy to recover one or more of the coins. Money and bargaining had always been a mystery to Nimbulan. Ackerly, however, excelled, keeping the two of them and their apprentices fed and sheltered on the meager allowance Nimbulan paid. The coins Ackerly had earned when he and Nimbulan fixed the horse race so many years ago had lasted them both for several years. They’d used the money for extra food and warmer clothes in the markets Druulin passed through once the boys started traveling with him.