The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I

gather it. The only other time that had happened was when a dragon died.
    “Shayla!” he whispered into the blankness. “What has happened?” Panic engulfed him. His breath came in short quick pants. He felt dizzy and heavy. “SHAYLA!” he wailed.
    Darkness tried to enclose his vision even as the back of his neck threatened to separate from his body.
    “Darcine?” he whispered.
    By feel alone, he groped his way to his desk. He must run to the palace. He must summon the Commune.
    He must contact Jaylor. The journeyman was near the dragon. He would know what transpired.
    Where was his glass? He needed the glass and a candle to call Jaylor. Where the s’murghing Tambootie was his glass! The desktop was empty. He couldn’t find the glass, his most precious tool. Sweat dripped into his eyes, darkness encroached. He had to find the glass.
    It slid into his hand, summoned by his thoughts and rogue powers he didn’t realize he had tapped.
    His vision cleared instantly.
    With shaking fingers, he struck the flame rock with a rough metal rod. A spark leaped from the rock to the wick. It wavered, nearly died, then caught. His breathing calmed.
    Baamin held the glass in front of the candle with still trembling fingers and began his spell. For a moment nothing happened. Then he remembered again to seek his magic in a different place. Now that he knew where to look, it was there, waiting, full of life and ready to spring forth at his calling.
    He reduced the aching pace of his lungs. Air swept deeply into his body. He held it the required three heartbeats and released it on the same count. Tension flowed from his muscles as the air escaped. His eyes focused on the leaping green flame, found its hot core, and sent it on its journey.
    In his mind Baamin saw the tiny flame skip across the river boundary of Coronnan City, over the tilled fields, southward beyond the Great Bay. At a tiny hamlet in the foothills the tiny flame paused, seeking direction. Then upward it climbed into the mountains. Baamin followed.
    He saw a hut, burned and abandoned. Forest creatures cowered at the edges of a clearing, equally forlorn and abandoned. The flame moved on.
    Upward, ever upward, Baamin followed the seeking green morsel of magic. Finally it lingered on a small plateau. It hovered a moment, then recoiled in a straight shot back into Baamin’s eyes.
     
    The beast-headed monster twisted his torso into an impossible angle. He reached out and caught Jaylor’s magic arrow between two fingers. Playfully he lifted the weapon to his lips and blew on it. The blue and red magic withered and died.
    “You’ll have to work harder than that, University man. I saw your attack coming. Your impudence just earned you a longer, slower death. My coven will delight in your screams. We’ll have an orgy at your feet as Simurgh rips your soul from your body.”
    Brevelan’s hope sank to the cave floor along with the attack.
    “Well, my pretty little witch, I’m finished here.” Thorm reached through the bell of magic to tug at Brevelan’s hair one more time.
    From any other man the gesture might have seemed affectionate. She knew that no such emotion ever entered this man’s breast.
    “Under other circumstances, I might consider training you to be my successor.” The rogue magician quirked one eyebrow. “But circumstances dictate differently. As soon as I have settled my glass dragon in her new home, I’ll be back to finish with you and the University man.” He laughed. There was a weakness in his mirth—fatigue. He had worked some very strong magic in the past half hour.
    Brevelan watched Thorm marshal his energies once more. With a mighty upward heave of his shoulders and arms, he commanded the glass figure that had once been Shayla to levitate an arm’s length above the floor of the cave. The dragon had been reduced in size to little more than an extremely large sledge steed.
    Thorm hovered the statue briefly, then gestured for it to follow him. He exited with a salute to the entrapped companions. The statue followed, drifting on a pillow of air.
    A flash of muted colors streaked across Brevelan’s limited vision.
    “Yeowwll!” Mica screeched as she landed on Thorm’s bare shoulder. Her fully extended claws and teeth drew blood.
    “Aiyee!” Thorm hunched and whirled, trying to dislodge the cat from his back. He lost control of the statue.
    Tons of clear glass dropped to the ground, rocked and titled. On the edge of one hind leg and