The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I

that were forbidden by traditional ethics. His armor was strong, fueled by his new inner powers. He easily absorbed the probes and turned them back to the senders.
    The lines of magic honed into arrows of poison and sped back whence they came.
    Seven of the twelve reared back in pain. Astonished at Baamin’s individual power, they put all of their remaining magic back into their own armor. The slim traces of magic that had been in the room disappeared. The other five magicians slumped slightly from the attack, then straightened in respect. Their armor remained solid.
    The five undoubtedly held rogue power. But did they know it? Had they practiced with it? Were they in league with other rogues?
    “We are still a Commune,” Baamin asserted. “And if we don’t work together for a common good, the kingdom is in danger of collapsing.”
    “There isn’t enough magic left,” one of the seven protested. He was gray with fatigue from maintaining the little protection he could summon.
    “Perhaps, perhaps not. But if we work together, we can overcome the problem without resorting to the jealousy and civil war that disrupted us once before. We may have to attract new dragons to the kingdom.” The noise of their questions and protests assaulted his ears as painfully, but less dangerously, than their magic. Baamin reasserted his power over them without magic.
    “I said together!” His voice boomed around the room.
    Silence.
    “Shayla has been kidnapped and transformed into a glass statue by a rogue.”
    The silence became deeper, more profound.
    “I have forces in the field seeking her location. We are the best-educated men in the kingdom. I need you here, searching for a solution to the divisions that threaten the Council.” He speared each one with his gaze. The Commune had been built on interdependence, trust, and common goals. The Commune must continue with or without a king. With or without a dragon.

Chapter 22
     
    D esperately, Baamin swam up through the folds of sleep. He had to awaken. He had to end these repetitive dreams.
    Blackness closed over him, dragging him deeper into the world of his worst nightmares.
    His own naked body pranced around and around a giant cave. His fuzzy sun and fog face sprouted long, long, longer teeth. Powerful muscles rippled beneath his sweating skin. A tune poured forth from his soul. Each note conveyed magic into the most massive spell of his life.
    His magic swirled around an amorphous form of crystal. Awe struck him nearly dumb. A dragon transformed into precious glass shimmered before him. He’d never seen a dragon before. Might never see one again.
    At last the song died on his lips, and he fought for reality again.
    Dawn glowed on the horizon outside his window. He sat up, panting for breath. Exhaustion still dragged at his muscles. Yet he feared to sleep again. If he closed his eyes, he would dream.
    The same dream that had haunted him time and time again for the last four nights.
    Was it all a dream, or had he actually transported himself to the southern mountains and wreaked havoc on the kingdom by kidnapping a glass dragon?
     
    Darville sniffed the air for danger. The smell of smoke was old and wet. It permeated the clearing even now, some four or five days after the villagers had torched Brevelan’s hut, probably only hours after she had left it. His nose felt clogged. Then he remembered he was human again. His wolf senses were dulled.
    “Let me scout around,” he whispered.
    Jaylor nodded in reply as he quietly set down his basket of salvaged Tambootie leaves.
    Darville watched Brevelan’s eyes fill with tears while her chin jutted forward. Stargods! but she was brave. Even though his memories of the moons he had lived here were dim, he knew this woman, knew all of her moods, her strengths, as well as her vulnerability. For her he vowed revenge. The prancing rogue and his s’murghing minions would pay for this destruction.
    He scouted the perimeter of the clearing with care. No snapping twig or scuffling undergrowth betrayed presence. Every few steps he sniffed and tasted the air.
    Maybe his senses were dulled. But he knew what danger should taste like. That combined with the soldier’s skills he’d been taught since childhood should serve him well. But he’d feel a lot safer if his familiar sword hung from his belt, or if he could really smell again.
    The clearing and its environs were empty. Had been for several days. He missed the rabbits and