Dragon Nimbus Novels: Vol II, The

by Irene Radford

  Ackerly cast aside the clothes he’d already assembled, filling the empty pack with the sack of gold instead.

  Should he take Kalen with him? She was now outcast from the school because she couldn’t gather dragon magic. She had always been outcast from Stuuvart. A brief longing for companionship with the only child he suspected he had sired almost sent him in search of the girl.

  No. She couldn’t gather dragon magic, so she couldn’t augment his own powers. Moncriith would probably persecute her, too. They were both better off alone.

  Looking up and down the corridor outside his room with all of his senses, he slipped outside the ancient monastery and headed to the sheltered cove where he kept a boat. By this time tomorrow he would be the most powerful and respected magician in all of Coronnan.

  Myri looked up from her search for a sprig of fennel. A single sprig was all she needed to protect Nimbulan in the coming battle. A shiver of danger prickled the hair on the back of her neck.

  “Look at all those people running around in circles!” Kalen whispered to Myri. They and the two other girl apprentices lay flat at the edge of a hilltop overlooking the army camp. Their baskets overflowing with healing flowers and leaves—none of them the precious fennel. Myri had taught them songs of thanksgiving to the Kardia for the gift of each plant. As they plucked leaf and flower, a second song sealed the healing properties into it, to be released only when added to an infusion, ointment, or poultice.

  Myri picked out Moncriith’s distinctive figure with ease, below them on a knoll at the edge of camp. His back was to them as he faced his camp. He always stood on the highest point around and surrounded himself with people who stared up at him as if he were all three Stargods incarnate.

  “What do you suppose they’re doing?” Kalen asked.

  Myri looked for a pattern in the way the people below them massed behind three figures who held their hands before them, seemingly sniffing the air.

  “Witchsniffers!” Myri nearly choked on her own fear. Dizziness swept over her, giving her view of the scene a second layer. She’d watched this scene before. A piece of a memory fell into place in Myri’s mind. She and Magretha, the old scarred witchwoman, had watched a similar scene from the shelter of a treetop. The milling throng below them always looked forward, never up. After an uncomfortable night catching a little sleep wedged into the fork between a stout branch and the tree trunk, she and her guardian had descended in silence and fled to a distant village—one that needed a witchwoman, and hadn’t yet learned to blame an ugly old woman with burn scars on one side of her face and back for every ill that plagued them.

  “We’d better run. They’ll find us soon enough.” Kalen edged backward on her belly.

  “Not yet. They seek someone closer. See how their hands stay straight out in front of their noses. If they sought someone beyond their camp, their hands would sweep in wide circles until they found a scent on the wind.” Myri held the girl in place.

  Amaranth let out a piercing squawk of distress above her. His outline looked like nothing more than a large black raven or hawk in shadow. His cry sounded more birdlike than cat, but deeper and more resonant than any bird.

  Above his circling silhouette she caught the glimmer of a transparent dragon wing. The larger animal radiated concern into her mind.

  Myri, she greeted the dragon, giving her name. Dragon manners seemed to require free exchange of names.

  (Shayla,) the dragon replied with her own name. (The one they seek belongs to Nimbulan. We cannot allow the arrogant one to succeed this time.)

  The female dragon wouldn’t dignify the Bloodmage with a true name. The arrogant one. A good description of Moncriith.

  “Whoever they are hunting needs our help. We have to come up with a plan,” Myri said to her charges. She turned her attention back to Moncriith and the witchsniffers.

  “They keep going back to the same tent, around and around it. The circles get narrower every time.” Kalen pointed to a small canvas shelter barely large enough to hold one man.

  It wasn’t the last tent within the perimeter of the camp, but very near the edge, as if the owner were a latecomer or wished a rapid exit.

  “And look at Moncriith.” The little girl stood up, hands on hips, an expression of outrage on her face. “He’s cheating. Look at his aura. He’s amplifying the emotions of the crowd following the sniffers. He’s the one crying for blood and making them think it’s their wish.”

  “Rollett is down there.” Myri remembered clearly that Nimbulan had sent the young man, Lan’s most trusted journeyman, to spy on Moncriith yesterday afternoon. Rollett had been eager to test his skills as an observer, as well as his ability to disguise himself. A simple delusion, altering only hair and eye color, required enough magic to alert a witchsniffer. “How, Shayla? How can we help him?”

  A prickling on the back of her neck warned her of danger. She ducked, drawing Kalen and another girl back down to the grass. An arrow of magic whizzed past them, speeding directly for the tent that must belong to Rollett.

  The shimmering spell spun as it flew, sending out tiny rainbows. It paused briefly, turned abruptly, then plunged faster and faster toward the tent. The silent impact sent shards of colors radiating into the air like a sunburst. When the tiny points of light drifted to the ground like colored snowflakes, the tent was gone. Vanished in an eyeblink.

  Above them, Shayla heaved a sigh of relief.

  Myri looked closer with all of her senses. A dome of transparent magic now covered the space where the tent had been. Its presence was discernible only by the distortion of light around it—like looking at a dragon.

  The witchsniffers paused in their seeking. Their arms began a new dance of sweeping wide circles. They’d lost their prey and now sought a new direction, following a similar dome of transparent magic that drifted to the east of camp.

  “We have to provide a diversion, or they’ll find him for sure.” Kalen jumped up again. She closed her eyes and frowned in concentration as she drew energy from the Kardia.

  Myri felt the pull of a ley line to the north of them. She, too, drew on it to fuel a spell. Land in the next valley, Shayla, and mount Rollett on your back. No one in the camp will see you. They’ll all be looking at us, she said to the dragon.

  (Agreed. Amaranth will guard you until I return for you.)

  Beside Myri, Kalen wove a delusion around herself. With each heartbeat she grew taller, broader. Her simple leather tunic and trews shifted toward red tones, stretched into a blood-red robe. Her features took on masculine coarseness. In a moment, an exact replica of Moncriith stood on top of the hill. Then Kalen, beneath the disguise, raised her hands, palms outward in a traditional gesture of benediction. Only the slightly downward curving little and third fingers indicated that she captured threads of the Kardia and wove them together to create her appearance.

  The witchsniffers looked up, their seeking arms stopped circling. Fingers and noses pointed accusingly at the new Moncriith on the hill, in a direct line with the original figure. From the vantage point of the mob, the sniffers were pointing at their leader as the source of magic they should seek out and murder.

  “Oh, you wicked child!” Myri laughed.

  “I can’t hold it very long. I don’t know how to . . .” The delusion collapsed. Only a very tired little girl in scratched journey leathers remained, hands to knees, head bowed, panting raggedly.

  The witchsniffers faltered again in their quest.

  “If you can’t sustain the delusion, I’ll have to try.” Myri gathered the threads of energy in her fingers and spun them around her. From memory she painted a portrait of her enemy on her own face, recreating his signature robes and untrimmed hair and beard.

  The seekers found the scent again and marched forward, a confused and angry mob in their wake. They surrounded the knoll where the real Moncriith stood, hands held out in mute appeal. He screamed something at his followers. Fear laced his tones.

  Myri fought to susta
in the spell. Fatigue threatened to drag the delusion back into the Kardia where it originated. She only needed to hold the spell a little longer. A little longer. Just until Rollett escaped.

  Her contact with the ley line drained away. The threads of magic she held within her fingers threatened to tangle.

  She gritted her teeth and found the strength to hold the spell. Sweat broke out on her brow. Moisture trickled down her back.

  She looked carefully at the scene below her. Moncriith and his three witchsniffers charged up the hill toward her. Shouts of rage filled their voices. Murder glinted in their eyes.

  Chapter 35

  “Did we do it?” Nimbulan asked the magicians who slumped near him. Their hands still linked them together, but the fire in the brazier had gone out and the magic drained away.

  “I don’t know,” Gilby whispered through gritted teeth.

  The others shook their heads in confirmation of losing track of the spell. Their stomachs growled in unison. They had used tremendous amounts of energy to throw the magic.

  “We have to try again,” Nimbulan ordered. “We have to make sure Rollett is safe.” Fire burned across his still-healing knife wound. He ignored the nagging pain and rekindled the fire with a snap of his fingers. He held the glass up before the flames. All he saw was fire, slightly magnified. Frantically, he cast about him for more dragon magic. He sensed none in the air around him. Had they used up the entire supply?

  Rollett was still in danger. Nimbulan had to do everything to save him. Ley lines still permeated the area. He reached for the nearest one and ran into a solid wall of resistance.

  “No, Nimbulan.” Old Lyman placed a surprisingly strong hand upon his wrist. “We must forget ley lines altogether. That is why the shadowed guardian of this place sealed the well of Kardia magic. If communal magic is to succeed, we must never again resort to solitary sources, no matter how desperate the need.”

  Nimbulan blinked rapidly, trying to bring the old man into focus. “Rollett is still in danger. I can’t let him die like Keegan.”

  Lyman blurred and stabilized, blurred again, mist or smoke cloaked his outline. Finally, his form came back into focus. Nimbulan blinked once more. Slowly. Hard. When he opened his eyes, Lyman had resumed his place on the other side of the circle from him. Had the old man momentarily taken on the form of the shadowed guardian, or had fatigue and pain played tricks with Nimbulan’s vision?

  “Rollett’s life is now in the hands of the Stargods. We did what we could,” Lyman said.

  “You might add the dragons to your list of thanks. More specially, Shayla.” Rollett himself wandered into the room, looking slightly dazed, limping and cradling his left arm in his right hand. His dark curly hair stood out around his head as if he stood in a strong wind.

  “Rollett!” Nimbulan flung himself at the young man. Jaanus followed suit, embracing his classmate and his master. “You’re safe, boy. You’re safe,” they repeated over and over.

  “Yes, yes, I am,” Rollett murmured, amazed at his good fortune.

  “How? Tell us all. We need to know the details in case we have to repeat the procedure.” Lyman took control of the emotional outbursts.

  “I felt your summons. My cup of water throbbed so violently, I thought it would shatter with the force of your demand that I join your spell. I held it up to my flicker of witchlight and suddenly the world seemed to explode with colors. Like lightning growing outward from the water. But it didn’t spread very far. When I could focus my eyes, I looked around, and everything within my tent shimmered with that odd iridescent light that you see when you look directly at a dragon and find yourself looking beyond it.” He looked around the room for confirmation that they understood.

  A twitter of tension-breaking laughter flickered around the room.

  “Well, I took a chance and peeked outside the tent,”’ Rollett continued. “The witchsniffers and their mob stopped and veered off in a new direction. I slipped out of the tent, and walked as fast as I could in the opposite direction. I wanted to be as far from them as possible. But when I looked back, the tent was invisible. I just stood there in amazement when one of Moncriith’s pet sergeants ran past me. He couldn’t have been more than an arm’s length away, but he didn’t see me!”

  Nimbulan’s heart lightened with relief. He lost a little sensation around the edges as he took in the import of his journeyman’s tale. They had used dragon magic to make the boy as invisible as a dragon!

  “Then what happened?” Nimbulan prompted, eager to know why Rollett had included the dragons in his list of thanks, other than their wonderful gift of communal magic.

  “I ran. I ran as fast as I could over the top of the next hill. I tripped and fell, but I got up and kept running.” He winced slightly and shifted his weight off his right foot.

  Jaanus rushed to get him a high stool. Rollett sank onto it gratefully, still cradling his left arm. He stretched out his long legs. His torso slumped a little as if he suddenly realized how tired and hurt he really was.

  “Halfway down that hill I tripped again and rolled. That must have been how I wrenched my shoulder. I could hear the shouts of the mob. Their blood lust was up and nothing was going to stop them. They were coming my way again, I don’t know if they sensed me or not. I thought I was done for, but I suddenly stopped rolling. Something very big stopped me. Shayla.”

  Everyone in the room nodded. They all knew precisely how big Shayla was. As wide as two sledge steeds and as tall as two more. Several tons of dragon presented a formidable wall to run up against.

  “She didn’t speak to me, but I knew a compulsion to climb up onto her back. It was a struggle with the ankle and the arm, but I managed to hold onto her spines, and half a heartbeat later we were airborne.”

  Nimbulan lived again the bunching of dragon muscles between his legs, the tremendous wind generated by the first downstroke of powerful wings. The sensation of his throat sinking to his belly as the Kardia fell away and they broke free of the pull of gravity. Shayla had insisted she and her consorts bring him and Myri and the children back to the island. He hoped to experience those thrilling moments of true flight again some day.

  “We stopped on the other side of Moncriith’s camp and plucked Myrilandel and the girls from a hilltop. The mob seemed to be pointing at them and getting ready to run after them. But one sight of that dragon and they all turned tail and ran. All except Moncriith. I saw him whip out his knife and slash his forearm to begin a spell.” Rollett swayed briefly with relief and pain. “Shayla flew high and fast, and we stayed ahead of whatever he threw at us.”

  “Let me send for Myri. You need to have her look at your injuries.” Nimbulan pressed the young man’s uninjured shoulder in reassurance.

  “Sorry, she’s not here,” Rollett replied. “On the way back we flew past Lord Hanic’s army. They’re on their way here, but I don’t know if they can get here before Kammeryl does. Shayla took Myri back that way. Maybe they can hurry them along. I’ll have to hunt up Ackerly to look at this shoulder. Maybe Guillia can fix me a poultice for the ankle.”

  “Ackerly.” All thought and movement ceased in Nimbulan. In the rush of the spell and the excitement of Rollett’s return, he’d forgotten Ackerly. For a moment, disbelief riddled him with guilt for his harsh words. Ackerly couldn’t have betrayed him, tried to murder him with an overdose of Timboor. They’d been friends and colleagues for too long. They depended upon each other for too much. They had saved each other many times. Shared too much of their lives.

  “Shall we bring the man to the refectory for judgment or take him to Lord Quinnault?” Jaannus asked reluctantly.

  “I suppose we should take him to the lord’s hall. These islands still belong to him. He has the right of governance among us. But I hate to turn over a magician to a mundane,” Nimbulan said.

  “He’s Quinnault the Peacemaker, not Kammeryl the destroyer,” Lyman reminded him. “He’ll understand that Ackerly is still human, with a man’s motives
and failings and not a demon. We have to obey the laws if we are to set an example for the rest of the kingdom and bring about peaceful living under the law.”

  “We can’t let personal feelings get in the way of the law.” Nimbulan hung his head in a moment of grief. “The evidence suggests the man tried to murder me. He must face the law as represented by Lord Quinnault de Tanos.”

  * * *

  “I wish I could fly,” Myri said. Idly, she twirled a long stem of grass in her hands while she leaned against Shayla’s flank. The grass was very like fennel, but not the precious herb of protection she sought. Maybe if they sought farther north, in a warmer, drier clime, they would find what she needed.

  Below the hillside where they perched, Lord Hanic’s army hurried along the trader road. If they marched all day and night, they might arrive in time to bolster Quinnault’s small defensive force. But then they’d be too tired to fight.

  Myri wondered what she could do to prevent the battle as she stroked Amaranth’s sleek black fur. He snoozed in the nest of Shayla’s curled forelegs. The flywacket seemed more at home there than he did in Myri’s lap lately.

  “I have dreams of flying.” Myri returned to her original thought. If they had one hundred dragons, they might be able to fly the army to the islands. With such a great show of force Kammeryl d’Astrismos would have to retreat and rethink his battle plans.

  (You must forget your dreams of flight, my child. Your destiny no longer lies with the dragons,) Shayla replied. (You are happy with your consort. You must remain with him, not fly with your nimbus of dragons.)

  “I love Lan very much. I don’t know what I’ll do if he dies in this battle.”

  (You will survive. We promised you a home and family. You must weave no more magic, to save even the ones you love,) Shayla said.

  “The spell I wove to distract the crowd from Rollett was only a delusion. A simple spell,” she defended herself.