The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I

blade was unsheathed and sweeping toward the head of his attacker before either had time to think. The sword missed by a hair’s breadth.
    Another raider appeared behind the first. A dozen more behind him. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed Darville’s suspicion that his men were in disarray. Useless yells of panic surged through the air.
    He whirled his blade above his head in an age-old signal to rally round him. None seemed to see or understand.
    “ S’murghing amateurs,” he cursed under his breath as he swung at a lunging raider. His sword bit deep and tasted blood. Red spurts erupted from where the man’s arm had been. Shock kept the raider on his feet, gasping, flailing to find his missing limb.
    “Aiyeee!” Another raider jumped in front of him, grabbing for the steed’s reins.
    Darville yanked his mind back to the present crisis. That raider fell with a great slashing wound to his belly.
    Parry. Thrust. Rear. He maneuvered frantically to stay asteed and alive. Cavalry had the advantage over foot. Unless the mounted men were thrown into disarray by surprise and heavy losses early in the fray.
    He tried again to rally his men into some kind of formation.
    Off to his left, the knight who had wanted to stop at the village fell with a lance through his body. Silently, be slithered to the ground to be pounded by the hooves of his own mount. Other bodies littered the ground. The heather soaked up their blood as if quenching a drought. The smell of blood and dust, death and pain rose around the troop. The noise deafened his senses.
    “Dragon dung! A century of cavalry against a dozen raiders and we’re losing.” Darville impaled a hook-nosed man. Two teeth showed through his death grimace.
    “Form up!” Darville deliberately reared his steed so his men could find him in the melee.
    The young knight who had cautioned him slashed through the throng to take his position to Darville’s right and slightly behind. Holmes was at his left shoulder. Fred, in a too large helmet, fought his way to Darville’s rear. Other men won control of their steeds as they found previously practiced positions.
    Raiders surged around the flanks of the wedge of cavalry. There were more of them now. Perhaps three dozen in all.
    Darville dug in his spurs, brought his sword up over his head and forward. He leaned over his steed’s neck, his sword pointing ahead. Behind him, his men followed suit as they raced through the throng of attackers. The raiders laughed and jeered at the rapid retreat.
    “After them! Don’t let the prince escape!” cried a huge fair-haired man sporting a square beard in the style of a SeLenese nobleman.
    Darville dared a glance at this apparent leader. His chain mail looked new, and his helmet shone in the fall sunshine. He was no outlaw dependent on the spoils of pillaged villagers.
    The troop’s path took them uphill. At the crest of the ridge, Darville wheeled the formation around to face his enemy once more. Without a word of command he charged back into the jeering outlaws. His men followed eagerly, their weapons at the ready.
    “I want the leader alive!” Darville commanded as his sword bit into the gut of a man who dared stand in his way.
    Fred and Holmes raced toward the man with the distinctive square beard. The enemy’s sword swooped and sliced into Fred’s mount. As the boy jumped free of the falling steed, Holmes removed the head of the foreign nobleman with one vicious blow.

Chapter 11
     
    B revelan stretched her arms over her head in a luxurious welcome to the bright morning sunshine. Birds greeted her. The morning mist dissipated under her gaze. Life was beautiful once more. Her back muscles arched in relief after the long weeks spent in bed recovering her strength. The baby stretched, too. His head pressed against her ribs while a foot planted itself firmly upon her bladder.
    After the hours of pain and weakness, she appreciated that small, but very normal discomfort. She looked down at her swelling belly. Every day the child seemed to grow faster. Her gown strained over the bulk of the baby, where before the ordeal of premature labor it had draped loosely.
    “Good morning, love.” Jaylor’s arms sneaked around Brevelan’s middle as he nuzzled her neck in greeting.
    “And a beautiful morning it is.” She turned in his embrace to receive a more intimate kiss. A piece of her mind sought Yaakke’s presence to make sure of their privacy. They were safe. The boy was