The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I

Blank places in the shape of giant wings. The black outline seemed the model for the stained glass window of Simurgh in the Great Hall.

Chapter 32
     
    D arville slid down the blue-tipped dragon wing. Down, down, deeper down through the void, until his feet touched solid stone. The chill of the void burned through to his bones. He shuddered as sensation returned to his limbs. The aching dizziness passed more quickly than he expected.
    Then he opened his eyes. He was alone in the Great Hall of Castle Krej. Alone, and yet. . . . The inanimate sculptures seethed with leashed emotions. Air gushed out of his lungs, weakening his resolve. All of these beautiful wild creatures had been released by Shayla last spring. Now they were imprisoned again, as if they had never been set free at all.
    Were his own actions just as fruitless?
    He couldn’t allow himself to think in those self-defeating lines. For Mikka, for himself, for Coronnan and the dragons, he had to put an end to Krej and his evil schemes—today.
    Something powerful disturbed the sculptures. Something powerful indeed, if Darville, a mundane, could sense their disquiet.
    The dragons, perhaps? Or more of Krej’s evil spells?
    Cautiously, he unsheathed his sword. The rattle of metal against the scabbard set his teeth on edge. With barely a whisper of further sound he slipped behind the infamous spotted saber cat. No guard responded to the sound.
    Darville stretched every sense to his mundane limits, stretched them further than he thought possible. He couldn’t hear or smell any live person near this room. In imitation of Mica, he extended his tongue and tasted the air. All kinds of flavors lingered, but none of them human. He shifted his posture to an attack preparation and settled his mind to think.
    If he were Krej and planning the upcoming battle, the guards would be on the walls, watching for an invasion force. Defenses inside the castle would be magical and geared to the known talents of the Commune.
    What should he look for? Something he, a mundane, couldn’t perceive.
    Perhaps that was his advantage. Krej was expecting the magicians to transport in—especially Jaylor, not Darville himself. The traps would be set for magicians. Mundane servants and family members would have to move about the castle unhindered.
    Dawn sent bright slivers of light through the massive window in the southeastern wall. The central hearth had burned down to embers. How long had they been in the void? One day, two, or longer yet?
    Darville straightened from his crouch behind the bronze sculpture. One foot poised to step out, he froze. An unworldly buzz vibrated around the hall. The soft light flared and greened, then it crackled in dozens of tiny bolts of lightning.
    If he’d been discovered, he might as well face his opponent head on. Sword arm en garde, he emerged from his hiding place to face the focus of the magic trap.
    “Hold, friend!” A swarthy figure dressed in black trews and magician blue vest solidified within the lightning bolts. Arms over his head in surrender, his eyes were wide with alarm.
    “Zolltarn.” Darville lowered his sword. “Did I come out of the void like that?”
    “I don’t know. I didn’t see you emerge.” The last of the buzzing faded, and with it the weird light.
    “Where are the others?” Darville searched the room for signs that the other magicians had followed him.
    “I lost track of them as we slid through the final folds of the void.”
    “Can you locate them?”
    “I don’t think I dare risk a probe. Krej has probably set traps for any flare of magic.”
    “Won’t our emergence trigger them?”
    Zolltarn shrugged in a classic Rover gesture. “I’ll deal with that when I find out.” Slowly he turned, surveying the Great Hall. “I see Krej has repaired the damage Shayla wrought last spring.” He stopped his surveillance at the window. The restless Rover stood absolutely still.
    “And improved. I wonder where he got the money for that window?” Then Darville saw it, too. A dragon pictured in colored glass. Only not a dragon. Simurgh.
    “It’s not real glass.” Zolltarn touched one of the lower panes. He had to stand on tiptoe and extend his arm full length just to reach that piece of clear red. “He conjured it out of . . . I’m not sure. I sense blood and I smell the volcanic sands of Hanassa.”
    “Blood? As in sacrifice?” Darville turned away from the dazzling window and confronted the altar. “This is