The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I

tread, and fresh air to breathe.
    The song grew in him. He built a harmony to round it out. His strides lengthened, his mind cleared. This grand adventure was the best part of his training. He reaffirmed his determination to enjoy it.
    The path rounded a bend to reveal a wide clearing bathed in glimmering sunlight. Near the center stood a neatly thatched cottage. Before the home stood a beautiful red-haired young woman. Her song lifted and swirled around and around her.
    A robin perched on her shoulder, chirping his own version of the song, while a rabbit nibbled at her toes. Squirrels chased each other about the garden area in a joyful dance. A mouse peeped out from the thatch, its nose twitching in greeting.
    Jaylor had found the witchwoman.

Chapter 6
     
    D arville trotted into the undergrowth. Each step brought new and interesting smells to his active nose. He sorted through them with care and delight. Dominating all, was that of Brevelan, just as she dominated the existence of all the forest creatures. Underneath her human scent he detected the familiar traces of Mica, the goat, a pair of squirrels, the flustercock and his mates. Darville disregarded the odor left by anyone who shared the clearing with Brevelan. She would never forgive him if he killed any of her special friends.
    He tested the air to right and left. Nothing new. He trotted farther, delighting in the spongy surface beneath his feet, the cool air on his tongue, and the sense of power in his frame.
    A stream crossed the path. Exuberantly, he bounced into the chill water, rolling into an icy splash with a playful lunge. The cold couldn’t penetrate his thick winter fur. His tongue lolled out in pure delight. He flexed his hind legs and bounded from the stream.
    Instinctively, he shook water from his coat. The spray bounced back into his face. He wanted to share his joy in the shooting drops of water. Brevelan wasn’t here. So the trees and ferns received the gift of his shaking. A little farther along Darville caught a new scent. Hare. He tasted and savored it. Just enough for a tasty meal, without any leftovers to distress Brevelan.
    For a moment he wondered why the feelings of a woman should matter. They never had before. Brevelan’s approval and goodwill were as essential to his being as was the dragon who flew the skies above. He’d never owed his life to a woman before. The least he could do was respect her wishes.
    In the meantime he would take pleasure in the power of his body, the keenness of his senses, and the beauty of the day.
    A short time later he licked the last morsel of hare from a bone just as a new sensation enveloped him.
    Fear. The smell of it, taste of it, was thick in the air. It lapped at the pit of his belly.
    Darville channeled all of his alerted senses into his search for the source of that mind-numbing fear. There. Into the wind, he found it. Brevelan was afraid. His muscles bunched and propelled him forward. Brevelan. He had to save her, just as she and the dragon had snatched him away from death last winter. Whatever threatened her would die. Shayla might help. But he no longer knew how to call her.
    Darville raced along the path in the most direct route to the clearing, crashing through the undergrowth. His passage disturbed the homes of several creatures. He didn’t care.
    His breath came quick and sharp, his heart beat and beat, pumping blood to make him fast and strong. He had to protect Brevelan!
    There at last was the clearing and Brevelan, his beloved. She stood, hunted-still, staring at a man with a walking staff. Her fear beat around Darville in waves. It echoed and reverberated through his bones.
    Darville could almost taste the hot blood from the man’s throat as he cleared the last few strides. This man would die. Brevelan would be safe.
    Instinctively, his front paws fought for traction while his hind legs bunched and coiled. Teeth bared, fur bristling, he leaped.
    He hit a wall. Bounced. Fell. Pain. PAIN. Blackness.
     
    A flying ball of fur crossed Jaylor’s vision.
    His arm came up, automatically, in a gesture of warding. The words of a spell rippled along his tongue.
    “No!” the witchwoman screamed.
    Time slowed. Jaylor could see only dripping fangs, sprouting from a gaping muzzle. Fangs meant for his throat. The wolf’s body hit the height of its arc and kept coming toward him. He could see the anger, the hunger in the animal’s eyes. And still it kept coming.
    Jaylor looked into the