The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I Page 14

  Of course. Mica always had a good morning. It was her favorite time of day. The cat’s emotions, which were almost words, pressed into Brevelan’s chest with joyful energy.

  Brevelan chuckled. This was her favorite time of day as well. With each new dawn came the chance to move her life forward, an opportunity to leave the troublesome past farther behind.

  “Where is Puppy?” she asked the cat.

  No reply. Either Mica didn’t know or, more likely, didn’t care. Mica reminded Brevelan that Darville could take care of himself.

  “Are you sure about that?” Brevelan asked. There were times when the wolf acted as if he’d never lived in the wild before. He needed her help and companionship too often. He also needed her healing. Sometimes he seemed terribly clumsy for a wolf.

  Mica blinked. Her yellow cat-eyes changed to rounded hazel-green. She blinked again and the cat was once more inside those strange eyes.

  Brevelan tested the water in the small pot she had brought along. It was nearly bubbling, time to add the handful of grains. By the time Jaylor returned from the creek it should be ready.

  A little tune came to her. She hummed it quietly. When it was set in her mind, she sang it a little louder. The notes sought out the dark shadows behind her, then swirled forward to reach across the forest. Contentment filled the recesses of the overhang.

  Mica butted her head against Brevelan’s knee. She scratched the cat’s ears to keep her out of her lap. “I’m sorry there is no milk for you, Mica. We left Mistress Goat behind.”

  A loud purr was the cat’s response. She didn’t mind as long as her ears were rubbed just precisely there.

  “Grrower!”

  “What a nasty thing to say!” Brevelan sat straighter. She shivered at the intensity of the protest.

  “Grrower!”

  That wasn’t Mica!

  At the edge of the cliff Jaylor looked out at the scene he had not seen the night before. Morning mist clung to the valleys and ravines while the mountain peaks soared above to pierce a cloudless sky. Below, the forest stretched, seemingly forever. Vibrant greens and blues of early spring shimmered in the sunrise.

  The last of the winter browns faded beneath the new growth. He picked out the bright and dark pattern of new growth on the everblues. Nestled here and there among them were the flat-topped Tambootie. This far up the mountain the trees of magic hadn’t been destroyed by superstition and the need for more pasturage. The area was even too remote for the greedy copper miners who sought the veins of ore beneath the roots.

  His body tingled as he caught a whiff of the pungent bark. Clean and crisp. A healthy smell, totally different from the reek of the evil associated with the Tambootie smoke.

  Jaylor gasped a lungful of cold air. The beauty of Coronnan lay before him, as he had never seen it before.

  Old-timers called this dragon weather: a little rain in the night, sunshine and beauty during the day.

  The weight of his quest settled upon his shoulders. Baamin said the dragons were ill, needing a magic medicine to bring the nimbus up to strength. Were they merely ill, or were they being killed?

  The embankment was steep and slippery from the rain. Saber ferns grew in profusion here, but they offered no handhold. He dug in his heels to keep from sliding headlong into the briskly flowing water of the creek. His boots stirred the damp earth. He smelled the cloying sweetness of crushed rose-lichen where his boots slipped in the mud. A nubby-berry bush snagged his leather shirt. These hazards were familiar.

  He splashed a handful of cold water over his face, carefully at first. His ablutions became more lavish after the initial shock of the icy creek, restoring his natural assurance and good humor.

  Wolf was not as cautious with the embankment or the cold water. He dashed down the bank to plunge into the water. He emerged with a gleeful grin on his face, water dripping from his coat.

  Jaylor was reminded of the youthful prankster he had known several years ago. Roy’s tutors had driven the boy to become more serious, pushing responsibility onto his young shoulders.

  Jaylor hadn’t seen much of his friend in the last two years. He didn’t slip away from his duties to explore life in the city anymore.

  Instead, he took to riding his steeds long and hard. Always, there was a cohort of soldiers to guard him.

  No wonder he organized long hunts at every opportunity. During a chase he could escape the suffocating presence of others and forget his responsibilities for a while.

  Cold water splashed across Jaylor’s leather trews. He stepped back, laughing. Wolf looked up, an entreating gleam in his eye. “Sorry, fellow. There isn’t time today for a romp in the water. We have to find ourselves a dragon.”

  Wolf cocked his head, as if trying to understand. He splashed again, then bounded out of the water, spreading almost as much liquid in his path as he left in the creek. He shook a few of the clinging drops from his fur.

  Jaylor could almost see the wolf’s thoughts. He didn’t feel right, so he took a step closer to Jaylor before shaking again.

  In his haste to step away from the cascade Jaylor slipped in the mud. “S’murgh it!” he cursed as he landed on his backside. “You had to do that, you miserable beast.”

  Once again Wolf cocked his head in curiosity. The movement brought another small spray of water across Jaylor’s shirt.

  “Watch it, Wolf. You’d feel cold without all that fuzz. Spray me again and I’ll shave you bald,” he threatened with a laugh.

  Jaylor anchored his awareness in the reality of his surroundings. There was the damp earth and fresh leaves of the growing trees. Birds were awake and chirping now. Below him the creek danced over rocks on its downhill journey. Above him was just the faintest trace of woodsmoke. Brevelan must have stoked the fire.

  She would be cooking breakfast. Grains with a wild nutty flavor. If it were later in the season, he could gather some nubby-berries to sweeten their morning meal. Perhaps Brevelan would throw some dried fruit into the pot. A hot drink would taste good, too. Jaylor’s mouth watered in anticipation. A proper meal would go a long way toward giving him the strength to confront a magic dragon.

  “Come, Puppy. We need to get back to Brevelan.” He started up the hill again.

  “Grrrr,” Wolf replied. His fur stood up on the back of his neck.

  “Grrower!” Another animal answered, louder.

  “Spotted saber cat,” he whispered into the wind. The largest, meanest, hungriest wild beast in Coronnan. An adult male could grow as large as a gray bear. Its elongated front teeth equaled those of a wild tusker in length. And the beast sounded as though it stood in the opening of the cave where Brevelan was preparing breakfast!

  “Come, Wolf. Now. Brevelan needs us,” Jaylor urged.

  “Grroowower,” Wolf replied as he bounded toward the menace.

  Waves of anger washed over Brevelan. Pressure built behind her neck and eyes, pressure to move. Her eyes glazed under the impact of the anger and outrage bombarding her senses. The pressure increased. Air inside her lungs fought with the weight of the atmosphere outside her body. The compulsion to move weighed heavily on her limbs. Move.

  But where?

  She was encased in a red cage of emotion. Walls of suffocating red marched closer and closer. She couldn’t breathe. The walls threatened to wrap her in hot, airless, burning hatred. Block it out.

  I must turn my mind away. She forced a separation from the red walls. Gradually her eyes focused. She sought the source of the emotional upheaval and wished she hadn’t.

  In the opening of the overhang, between her and escape, stood a spotted saber cat. The beast could be the twin or littermate of the only other one of its kind she had ever seen. The bronze statue that had blinked at her in Krej’s hall. Its long teeth gleamed wetly in the early sunlight. Malevolence flashed deep within its eyes. That cat wanted nothing more than to use those huge teeth to rip her flesh open and taste her blood.

  Chapter 14

  Darkness dwelt w
ithin the cavern. The campfire glowed near the entrance. Behind it no shadow moved. Jaylor couldn’t see Brevelan. Sweat clung to his brow and back. What if the cat had already killed her? Panic threatened to shatter him from the inside out.

  The huge cat stood in the entrance to the overhang, its eerie roar echoing about the hillside. Jaylor took one silent step closer. Orange and gray fur gleamed in the early sunlight, temporarily blinding him with its brilliance.

  “Grrower,” the cat snarled again. Claws fully extended, one huge front paw reached up to strike at something in the shadows.

  Each one of those claws was nearly as long as one of Jaylor’s fingers.

  One more step and he would be able to see if the cat’s intended prey was Brevelan. A tiny pebble rolled under his boot. It struck another, larger stone. The sound drew the cat’s eyes, eyes that were slitted with malice. The huge body remained between Jaylor and the cavern interior.

  He crouched to ease his rapid breathing. He had to get Brevelan out of the way.

  “Grrower.” Once more the cat turned his attention toward the shadowy movement in the dark recess.

  A rock that just fit Jaylor’s palm came to his hand. Without bothering to stand straight again, he flung the stone. It bounced off the largest gray spot just behind the cat’s ribs.

  “Yeehowl!” The beast protested as it moved sideways and deeper into the recess.

  “S’murgh!” Jaylor cursed.

  Another growl filled the overhang. Wolf stood beside him, fur on end, ears upright. He too was ready to do battle.

  Wolf bared his fangs and approached the cat. We must save Brevelan. His growls came close to words, their meaning clear in Jaylor’s mind. Yellow wolf eyes narrowed to glittering slits.

  There wasn’t time to puzzle out that moment of coherent communication. The cat slunk beyond the campfire toward Brevelan’s hiding place. Where was she anyway?

  “We need a weapon, Wolf.” His pack and staff were between the cat and Brevelan. He needed the staff as a focus for a blast of magic fire.

  Jaylor gathered the magic necessary for the spell. Which spell? He’d never used magic for offense, only as armor for defense. “I’ll think of something.” His mind drifted away from his body, watched himself from afar.

  Breathe in slowly, he told the body he was watching. Feel the magic essence roll and form into a tangible shape. An arrow of light and energy. Like lightning.

  Breathe out. Let the magic grow in power. Say the words and watch the spell emerge from the body.

  Nothing happened. He gulped back the panic. Once more he hadn’t been able to throw the proper spell. He could hear his teachers grumbling, the other apprentices laughing at his clumsiness.

  Maybe he had said the wrong spell. He rolled the words back across his visual memory. No, the words were right, the spell was proper. So what went wrong?

  “Grrower!” The cat spat again as it took another step forward.

  Movement caught his eye. Up there, on the small ledge at the back. Brevelan crouched, knees under her chin, Mica clutched to her breast. Even from the opening he could see her shaking. Some of her distress spilled out to him. For a moment he was shaken by the intensity.

  Without thinking, Jaylor brought his staff to his hand with an image. “I won’t let it hurt you,” he declared. The words cleared his mind even as his body sent forth the first shot of red and blue flame.

  A pitiful little bolt of fire, it barely reached the cat’s thick fur. Its tail twitched in annoyance at the tiny pinprick against its flank.

  “We’ll have to do better this time,” he muttered to no one in particular. He calmed his pounding heartbeat and evened his ragged breathing. That was supposed to be the simple part. Still, his mind echoed with the fear that was palpitating against the walls.

  He had to forget the deeply ingrained limitations and restrictions on magic as taught at the University. The Commune, working in concert could use magic as a weapon—for the good of the kingdom. Individuals couldn’t throw those spells alone. But that was traditional magic. He was Jaylor, the solitary. If One-eye could use personal magic for his own greed, then surely Jaylor could summon enough to save a life.

  Breathe in three, out three. In, one, two, three. Out, one, two, three. Again, two, three.

  His vision cleared as he shifted his feet to a better position. Sound ceased, and time slowed. The rock walls glowed with silver light. He isolated the cat from its surroundings. The sun and fog of its fur filled his mind. He raised his staff with one hand, then grasped it with the other. His mind focused on the twisting grain of the wood, long fingers of magic braided along its fibers.

  With a mighty effort he sent forth chains of fire. They pulsed, then merged into one huge ball. The dark recesses were filled with heat and light as bright as noon in the clearing.

  “Yeeowl!” The cat looked him in the eyes, startled.

  Jaylor held its gaze. He allowed his eyes to tell the beast he was serious this time. Another burst of his signature blue and red flame braided along the staff.

  The cat jumped back toward the cave entrance to avoid the magic fire.

  “Grrow.” It spat one last comment before turning and bounding past Jaylor and away through the forest.

  “Arrooff,” Wolf howled in triumph. He chased the beast away from the entrance, baying in triumph, his fur still stiff and teeth bared.

  “You can come down now, Brevelan.” Jaylor turned to her once he was sure the cat was gone. Brevelan didn’t move. Mica began squirming away from her clenched hands now that the danger was gone.

  Wolf trotted to a spot just beneath the ledge and whined.

  “You’re safe now, Brevelan.” Jaylor coaxed. He reached up a hand to help her down.

  Mica used it to reach the ground. Brevelan maintained her fearful crouch, eyes fixed, body trembling.

  “Brevelan!” Jaylor spoke as sharply as he dared. “That cat may come back. We have to leave. Now!”

  She whimpered slightly. At least she was responding.

  “Come now, take my hand. I won’t let anything hurt you.” He reached up his hand again.

  She didn’t move. “S’murgh it, Brevelan. You have to come down. Now.” This time he grabbed her arm and shook her.

  Finally she looked at him. “I felt its need to kill. For a moment I needed to kill.”

  “I have failed, Your Grace.” Baamin bowed his head before King Darcine in the royal family’s private solar. He was careful to add a touch of humility to the carriage of his shoulders. It wouldn’t do for the king to see how happy he was that he had failed.

  “You dare to come to me, your mission incomplete?” The king’s eyes narrowed in speculation. For a moment Baamin was reminded of the younger Darcine, strong and eager for battle.

  “I am sorry, Your Grace. The magic has failed me. I tried to reach my journeymen. Something, or someone, interfered. The kingdom’s magic has faded beyond my ability to gather it.”

  “Impossible.” The king pulled himself up to his full height. It was a stance he had not assumed much in the past few years. His subjects had almost forgotten how imposing he could be when necessary.

  “Nothing is impossible, Your Grace.” Baamin straightened too. The top of his head barely reached the king’s nose. He had to rely on his bearing and bulk to claim the respect due his position as Senior Magician, Chancellor of the University, and adviser to the king.

  “Dragon magic is woven into the very fiber of this kingdom. It cannot fail. I am stronger, therefore the magic must be strong.”

  “Shayla has mated. You are stronger because she carries young. But she is the only breeding female dragon left. The nimbus of dragons is pitifully small, Your Grace. All the others in my records are too old, or dead, or they have left,” Baamin argued.

  “Left? Dragons can’t leave Coronnan. They are bound to us.” Darcine’s shoulders caved in a little. He seemed to lose the strength to hold them back.

  “The bonds of magic and Tambootie are not
enough to hold the creatures when they are driven out by superstition and slaughter. Uneducated villagers have stopped planting the Tambootie. They no longer tithe their livestock to the dragons. Indeed, many have killed dragons rather than worship them. Shayla’s last two litters were slaughtered in the nest. We are lucky she stayed. You are alive today only because she mated again.”

  “When did this outrage occur? And why was I not told? There is no greater crime in this kingdom than murdering a dragon and I was not told!” Grief and anger gripped Darcine’s features. “Those responsible must be punished.”

  “The first time, I learned of it even as the lung disease gripped you. We feared for your life, Your Grace.” Baamin swallowed deeply. He searched his king’s face for signs of the weakness that had gripped him ever since.

  “And the second time?”

  “Shayla bred again, as soon as she could, so we . . . I felt it best to let you heal without that knowledge. The next litter was killed as well.”

  “That would have been two years later, when my heart failed.” Deep sadness drained the straightness from his shoulders. “Was there no one who would lift a finger against the murderers?”

  Baamin rested a comforting hand against Darcine’s back. “The healers said the news of the second tragedy would kill you for certain.”

  “Where were the lords when this slaughter took place? Surely they would seek out and destroy anyone who dared harm the nimbus?” Darcine found his padded chair with shaking knees.

  Baamin thought about assisting his king to the chair. In spite of his new vigor, Darcine’s body was still painfully thin, and so frail he looked as if the slight breeze from the open window would crumble him to dust. Baamin decided he’d done too much assisting in the past. They had all, counselors and lords alike, allowed the king to become weak and uninvolved over the years. At the time it had seemed logical to ease his burdens as his health failed. Darville had been around then, young and strong, eager to take responsibility onto his broad shoulders.