The Wandering Dragon (Children of the Dragon Nimbus)

by Irene Radford

  A bone so long and twisted it could only have come from a Krakatrice. Perhaps the first Krakatrice, a mutant derived from the same stock as dragons, but so deviant it was exiled.

  A mutant that should not have lived and reproduced but did.

  As he watched the storm rise and rage in front of Samlan he felt the boat shift violently beneath his feet. Rain drenched his face. Wind tore at his hair and threatened to rip the staff and the bone from his hands.

  Magic thrummed through him as he chanted words of rage over and over. His words formed an endless circle that whirled around and around him. As did the winds and the rain, drawing air and water from all corners of the Kardia, piling them up, one on top of the other. The winds circled, tighter and tighter, pulling the water of Bay and ocean up into its vortex.

  Robb fell into the storm as surely as if he were part of the mix of wind and water. He fought the external and internal forces that bound him to the magic thrown by Samlan. He watched the traitorous magician from below and to the left.

  And then, as the chanting spell reached its climax, Samlan and Robb and the others dropped the bone at the same moment, unleashing the storm to wreak havoc upon Coronnan. A tidal wave one hundred feet tall rushed forward to the apex of the Bay, to the heart of Coronnan City.

  “No!” Robb screamed.

  He felt himself drowning as he became part of the destruction of his homeland.

  CHAPTER 23

  “DO NOT LEAVE the spell yet,” Lokeen commanded.

  Robb fought his urge to find oblivion in blackness.

  “You have shown me nothing new. I need more,” Lokeen insisted.

  The firmness of the king’s voice gave Robb something to latch onto. A bit of reality to cling to while he sought answers in the spell.

  “What happened after they loosed the storm? I had no summons to invade, or to help, and in so doing plant my troops in Coronnan City ready to displace the king. What happened?”

  What happened indeed? Something was off in Robb’s vision. He saw . . . he saw Samlan. If he relived those events through the eyes of the owner of the finger he should have seen . . . Samlan’s robes. He should have felt the strain of holding the staff aloft in the horrendous wind. But he saw the weariness in Samlan’s face. He had no staff to cling to. He had only the bone.

  “You bastard,” he yelled at Samlan. “You took the finger of your apprentice Tem. My apprentice Tem. You offered him his life if he helped you. Hideous death if he didn’t. And still he died.”

  “How? How did the boy die?” Lokeen coaxed. “Show me what happened aboard that boat.”

  Robb focused his inner sight on the finger and endured the sharp ache of the fresh wound on the hand. He was grateful when Samlan finally ordered they drop the heavy bone, made doubly heavy and awkward by its eons-long transformation into stone.

  The bone dropped heavily toward the water. The waves rose higher to enfold it, welcome it.

  But . . .

  But at the last second a bolt of lightning crackled out of the sky, speeding toward the bone as a lodestone toward the pole. Faster, sharper, the blazing light formed an arrow and struck the bone dead center a heartbeat before it touched the water. Fragments exploded upward with a great boom of sound that knocked Tem flat on his back.

  A huge wave followed, swamping the boat. Tem rolled to his knees, scrabbling to hang onto something, anything as the deck tilted, pushing him to slide closer and closer to the roiling ocean.

  “Master!” he yelled, praying desperately for help.

  “See to yourself,” Samlan snarled as he climbed into the tiny rescue boat lashed to the other side of the deck.

  Another wave slammed into Tem, slapping him face first into the deck. Blackness engulfed him.

  The vision ended.

  Robb slumped sideways against the lounge, too exhausted to remain conscious. Too heartsore to do aught but weep.

  “So, the master magician escaped. But he lost my bone. You must find him. You know who he is. You can find him again. You can summon him and get answers.”

  “Not now. Now I can do nothing. I barely have strength to breathe.”

  What is that smell? Sort of sweet with an acid undertone and an overlay of stale urine and sweat. It is close to the elixir of life I have found only during the high rituals of sex and torture of an initiation into the coven.

  Without waiting for the nicety of taking Bette with me—she is in the laundry seeing to my personal linen—I follow my nose through the meandering rooms and staircases, descending deeper and deeper. I pass the food storage and wine cellars with little interest, though I do note they are comfortably filled if a little lean on fresh vegetables. Geon explored this area earlier and told me the correct corridors to follow. But he went no farther because it was not the way to the library. He carves his own path through this world, guided by his reading and not by me.

  That will change soon.

  For I find only blank walls when my sense of smell and wave after wave of magical power tells me I should be atop my goal. Power rises through the stones at my feet, making my toes tingle and my thighs itch with the need to move. Like calling to like, bouncing off each other and amplifying at every rebound. This magic is born of pain and blood, as is mine. I feed on it to satiation and still there is more. I must find the source. Now!

  Nothing in this castle follows a straight line. A good strategy for defense—confuse the enemy at every turn and withdraw toward a more defensible core by way of hidden passages, secret tunnels, and doors that don’t look like doors.

  Hmmmmmm. I stare at the dressed stones and crisp mortar. Nothing out of alignment. Nothing unusual. Perhaps I stare at the wrong wall. So I follow the backward logic of the place and search the blank wall on the opposite side of the cellar. The damp one that faces the ocean and the harbor. Not a stable location for a stairway. But then perhaps the damp and black mold on the mortar are merely illusions worthy of the master magicians of Coronnan.

  Nothing there either. These cellars are vast. Many, many rooms that lead one into another. The subterranean levels must also cover as many acres in support of the massive stone keep and outbuildings above. What lies below the wine storage? Only a dungeon would go that deep into the foundations. A dungeon with limited access and means of escape.

  So I follow the flow of air back the way I have come rather than seek the power and the scent that draws me. And so, at last I find a narrow wooden door bound in iron with freshly oiled hinges. A stout door that will not succumb easily to a battering ram. The lock is intricate and formidable. But I have magic within me. Strong magic generated by fear and pain and spilled blood.

  Holding one finger at the edge of the lock I shoot a spell of unbinding directly into the mechanism. Three clicks and the sound of metal scraping metal and the lock releases. The door swings outward at a touch.

  I sense openness in the blackness before me. No sunlight has ever penetrated this passage. But I have power and to spare. Power that builds by the moment.

  A scream echoes off walls. The terror within the noise fills me so full of magical ecstasy that fire erupts from a torch stuffed awkwardly into a sconce. I can see the steps winding downward. But I don’t need the light. My entire body is alight with the fire of magic.

  Like to like. Unreal in its strength. Surreal in my affinity with it.

  Slowly I make my way down, drinking in the power, the tension building within me as I go. The stairs end and a stone passageway slopes upward. I follow it, finding doors to prison cells on either side. A cross corridor leads inland away from the harbor. What little moisture manages to seep through the foundations evaporates. A little light filters through high windows. My sense of direction tells me that I am now near the central courtyard.

  Then I see him. A tall, well-formed man wearing the uniform of the King’s Guard with a gold sash crossing his chest from right shoulder to left hip, where a long sword is sheathed. A plain blade, utilitarian rather than ceremonial. I have found the
one I need and quietly come to stand beside him.

  He knows I am there. I can sense it in the flare of his nostril and an edging of his right hand closer to the grip of his blade.

  A weak and whimpering moan of despair leaks through the closed door of a large cell with a wide wooden door. No bars. No window with a cover, no way to peek inside. Either the door is open and the contents of the cell fully visible, or it is closed and whatever lurked there could be forgotten.

  Except for the smell of blood and death, pain and fear.

  Execution.

  “What was his crime?” I ask. The tension that leads to ecstatic release leaves me. I am exhilarated but exhausted at the same time. Being present at an execution is almost better than the act of sex itself.

  “He failed to notify me that Lady Maria left the castle. He then failed in not reporting the presence of Prince Toskellar in the city.” His shoulders relax as he too senses the end of the thrill.

  “Then you are indeed the man I seek. I need one who knows everything that happens and is therefore the most powerful.”

  He nods. “And you are?”

  “Do I need an introduction?”

  “Confirmation of your purpose, Princess Rejiia.”

  “My purpose here in this dungeon or my purpose in seeking an audience with your king?”

  “Both.”

  “Does the execution of a criminal bother you, Captain? I had heard that the death penalty was not a part of your culture.”

  “It is now.”

  “And do you agree with your king bringing it to Amazonia?”

  “It is . . . necessary.”

  “But you? Are you in favor of it?”

  “Not at first.”

  “But now you glory in it. As do I.”

  He nods again.

  “Then you and I have a common purpose. A common goal. You already sense the power thrumming through the walls. I can show you how to use that power.”

  He looks interested, urging me to proceed.

  I wave a hand and every torch flares to life as if the sun itself broke through the solid walls, revealing the blood leaking out from under one prison door.

  “Parlor tricks. I want real power.”

  “Then come with me. Is there a locked door you have always wanted to look behind? Is there a person you would like struck senseless? Is there a mind you would like to listen to as if to your own thoughts?”

  He offers me his arm to escort me out of the charnel house of a dungeon. I have found a new member of my coven.

  “I don’t like this move,” Lukan muttered as he shifted the weight of his pack to a less awkward position.

  For once, he caught no glimpse of Geon dogging his heels.

  “I don’t either,” Gerta whispered from slightly behind his left shoulder. “But the lady says it is necessary.”

  “What can we do from the castle that we can’t do from outside?” Lukan asked.

  “A lot,” Skeller replied. He strode slightly ahead of them with Lady Maria leaning heavily on his arm. Chess walked on the other side of her, also providing support to the tiny woman.

  She limped so badly Lukan’s hips ached in sympathy. He couldn’t imagine going through life with such a debilitating deformity, let alone expending tremendous energy to hide it. When she’d first arrived at the blacksmith shop she’d moved slowly, cautiously. Now she couldn’t hide her disability.

  At home, the healers would have worked on her until they’d either corrected the twisted leg or at least given her a brace and built-up shoe so that she could move more normally.

  “I can understand Lady Maria wanting you as her personal bodyguard,” Lukan continued speaking with Gerta. They both kept their gazes moving, noting and assessing potential dangers—like the idle man leaning casually against a well at the next intersection. He watched the five of them long after they passed beyond his seemingly casual observation.

  Gerta nodded to him, acknowledging the man’s overly curious gaze.

  “Only a little farther, Aunt Maria,” Skeller said soothingly.

  “We could carry you,” Chess offered. Always polite. Always thinking of others. Lukan remembered why he hadn’t befriended the boy at the University. He was just too good to be true. He should have been a healer. Lukan didn’t know why he’d become Robb’s apprentice rather than one of the hospitallers.

  “I am not an invalid,” Lady Maria insisted. Her next step was bolder. But the effect of asserting her independence was spoiled when her knee buckled. Skeller had to hold her up. They stood rooted in place for many long moments while the lady panted her way through the pain.

  Lukan and Gerta moved hastily to stand before and aft. Gerta held a long dagger along her thigh, ready to raise it in defense. Lukan held his staff across his body, preparing a stream of fire to shoot from the tip. He’d always wanted to throw that spectacular spell, even though he knew the fire would be mostly illusion and not dangerous.

  He heard the clop of many steeds approaching rapidly from his left. He shifted his staff in that direction.

  “Hold,” Gerta ordered. “It’s the king and his guards.”

  “How can you tell at this distance?” Lukan squinted into the distance. All he could see was a dozen tall steeds and men riding atop them.

  “A dozen steeds with men riding them,” Gerta confirmed as if that were answer enough.

  Lukan had to think about that. “In all my wanderings I’ve seen few steeds inside the city and then only dray steeds hauling heavy goods into and out of the market.”

  Skeller rolled his eyes as if the observation was too obvious to note.

  “That’s Master Robb, third steed back,” Chess gasped, letting go of Lady Maria. He took two running steps before Lukan grabbed his collar and held him fast.

  “Are you asking for death?” Lukan hissed into his ear.

  “But . . . but we can grab him and hide him in the city!”

  “But we can’t get him out of the city. We need to plan!”

  “That is why you need to be inside the castle,” Lady Maria said shakily. “He looks ill. You’ll not get far with him today.” With more determination than strength she set off down a narrow side street that led to the back of the castle while the steeds continued past them toward the primary entrance.

  CHAPTER 24

  “YOU’VE DONE ENOUGH for today,” Souska said gently.

  Lily sorted bundles of herbs in their little round hut—barely tall enough for either of them to stand up at the center ridgepole. “Never enough . . .”

  “For today, you have done all you can. You are stronger but you still need more rest and food to rebuild your health.”

  “I’ve said that so often to Val, it sounds strange directed at me.” Lily sat back on her heels, staring into the distance. Was she speaking to her twin?

  Her golden red hair had more body and luster than just a few days ago. Her cheeks were still too pale and drawn, with dark shadows encircling her eyes like purple bruises. She looked more like her fragile twin than ever.

  “That’s just it, Souska, there isn’t enough food. Our patients need it more than I; they succumbed deeper to the miasma. And there will be no food at all after we burn the fields. And we must burn the fields. The dragons said so.” She turned bleak eyes up to Souska.

  “I’ve been thinking about that.” Souska thrust aside the leather curtain that sufficed as a door. It provided only a little privacy and less protection. Come winter, they needed to move in with one of the other families.

  Outside, in the village common, two women threw a bit of grain for the flusterhens. They could eat the grain and let the hens starve, or feed the grain to the hens and at least have eggs, and maybe meat.

  Two men released the remaining goats from their pen and drove them toward the far fields, hoping the fallow grasses would provide disease-free forage for the animals.

  Three days ago, no one had stirred in the village except Lily.

  How many other villages th
roughout Coronnan suffered the same disease, but without Lily’s help?

  “There is a plant, we called it fireweed back home because it was always the first thing to grow in a field after a fire,” Souska said hesitantly.

  “What about this plant?” Lily asked, some enthusiasm returning to her voice. She’d grown up tending a huge vegetable garden, flusterhens, and goats, but knew almost nothing of larger-scale farming.

  “It is good forage for animals.”

  “But will it grow after we salt the fields? Don’t forget, the dragons said the miasma needed fire and salt to kill it completely.”

  “I don’t know. I’ll have to taste the dirt after we burn.”

  “Taste the dirt?” Lily looked skeptical. The deep shadows within their hut turned her face into a skeletal mask.

  A portent?

  Souska shuddered.

  “I think I need to taste the dirt now.”

  “No, Souska. No, don’t!” Lily’s frightened words stopped Souska in the doorway. “The miasma is still there. You’ll get sick and I . . . I’m afraid to go on without help.”

  “Don’t be afraid. I only need a grain or two to know what’s in there.”

  “That may be too much. Wait until we burn.”

  “What if we don’t need to burn?”

  “The dragons said we do. My parents always taught me to trust the dragons.”

  “But we only have the word of one dragon. Krystaal. And she’s young. She may not have all the wisdom and knowledge of the elder dragons. She may be wrong.”

  “Dragons are never wrong. What one knows, they all know.”

  Souska doubted that. But who was she to question anyone? She had almost no magic.

  But she knew about farms, soil, crops, rotating fields . . . “Perhaps a young dragon could misinterpret what the others know.”

  She stepped out of the hut and headed for the edge of the far field, beyond the village precincts to the wild prairie.