The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I

cord.” Krej’s words drifted through the swirls of magic. With them came the compulsion to raise a fist and slam it down onto the copper umbilical of life.
    Inch by inch, Jaylor’s fist came up. He resisted, fought Brevelan’s father with all of his will. Sweat broke out on the body he had left behind. Black stars clouded his vision, both real and magic.
    His hand was at the apex of its upward arc, prepared to drop with incredible force. Forcing control back into his muscles, Jaylor managed to open his fist. But he couldn’t stop the forceful downward plunge of his arm.
    At the last second he diverted the momentum. He was tangled in the plait of colored cords. The blue and red one of his own life felt hot from his resistance. Krej’s maroon and green colors were slick with ill intent. The gold one, representing Darville’s loving bond to both Brevelan and Jaylor, was cool and distant.
    Jaylor slid his hand deeper into the colors until his fingers closed around a tube of cold glass. The cord pulsed against his palm.
    “Forgive me, Shayla,” he whispered. With one last effort of self-will he yanked on the cord until it was totally separate from the mass. Then he allowed Krej’s deadly wish to take over once more. His fist smashed the bright crystal once. Twice. A third time. Slivers of crystal danced in the glow of magic.
    And still his fist came down as a hammer, breaking even the slivers into smaller pieces. Again and again he pounded the glass. His hand was raw and bleeding. Yet Krej continued to use him to pummel the dragon with years of hatred and frustration.
    “Cease, Father! You’re killing the dragon,” Brevelan screamed.
     
    Where did my rival go? I cannot find him anywhere. Always, his mind has been as close to me as a thought. Now he is gone. Armored.
    This mischief must stop before the coven pushes him to the focus, leaving me behind.
    I must follow the trail of his foul-tasting Tambootie, even if it takes me through the void. Our kind are not welcome there. There are traps laid by the spirits of our ancestors. They wish to keep us with them. I am not yet ready to join Simurgh.
     
    Reality surged back around Jaylor with a jolt. He was in the hut again. He slumped over the bed, exhausted. Both hands rested on the edge of the mattress where Brevelan had lain in agony only moments before.
    “Stupid bitch,” Krej cursed. “You broke the spell!”
    “You went too far. You were trying to kill Shayla or me—you didn’t care which—not just separate us.” Brevelan hung on her father’s upraised hand.
    “Brevelan, are you all right?” Jaylor reached a weary hand to his beloved. She was standing, neither strong nor hale, but standing nevertheless. Her face was still paler than moonlight.
    They had saved her. And the baby?
    “You’ve done what you came for, Lord Krej.” Brevelan stared at the magician. Her posture mimicked her father’s perfectly. She had inherited more than just her red hair from the man. “Go, now, before I use some of your own brand of magic on you. Would you rather face the Council of Provinces as a flustercock, or,” she grinned in a manner that made Jaylor shudder. “Or would you rather be impotent?”
    “Not even a thank you, for saving your life?” Krej shook himself free of her grasp as if she soiled him.
    “You would have killed her had I not fought your murderous impulse,” Jaylor accused. “Get out. Now.”
    “I cannot return on my own. Teach me the spell and I will gladly leave you—forever.” Krej stood firm. The fog of the magic spell was clearing from his eyes. But lines of fatigue radiated into his temple.
    “Yaakke!” Jaylor called. The boy poked his head inside the door so quickly he had to have been listening, or even watching. “Find refreshment for his lordship and find out where he wants me to transport him. When I have rested, I will perform the spell.”
    His apprentice nodded and winked. A big smile spread across his face. At least he understood that the source of the spell was to remain secret.
    But how long would he play the game at Jaylor’s bidding?
     
    A clump of heather quivered in the morning breeze. Darville tightened his grip on the reins and clamped his thighs tighter around the mettlesome steed who decided the movement was a good excuse to assert his will. The strong stallion tried to rear, and when that failed, he fought the bit and controlling reins with nervous dances. A lesser man would have been thrown.
    This was