The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

last he heard Lyman reading the written text of the message Quinnault had worked out. A plea for Hanic to join the united lords in mutual defense against Kammeryl d’Astrismos. United strength to combat those who sought war for the sake of war. If all stood together, they could defeat Kammeryl and negotiate a new government with a new monarchy.
    They deliberately left the issue of a monarchy hanging. Hanic had to believe himself eligible for the crown, though Quinnault’s alliance had already asked the lord of the islands to rule.
    Lyman’s words trailed off. Nimbulan opened his eyes to see, what, if any, reaction came back through the glass. Because he was not joined to magicians performing this spell, he saw nothing through the glass but magnified flames. He could only judge the response on Naabbon’s end from Lyman’s face. A map of time-earned wrinkles around the old man’s eyes crinkled. A smile curved upward, revealing amazingly sound teeth.
    “Agreed, Naabbon. Your lord will march tonight to reinforce Lord Quinnault as he defends his lands against Kammeryl d’Astrismos and the Bloodmage.”
    Ackerly removed his hand from Lyman’s shoulder. The spell dissolved.
    “We did it, Master Nimbulan.” Lyman stood up from his crouched position before the fire. “We blasted young Naabbon with so much magic we dragged him out of his bath. He spluttered and gasped, but he couldn’t break the summons. He had to stay with his glass, walked it down the corridor—him dripping bath water the whole way and naked as a lumbird—into Hanic’s bedroom. Woke the lord up and got the agreement. He couldn’t break the summons!”
     
    Moncriith studied the army of Lord Kammeryl d’Astrismos. Far less than the one thousand men the lord advertised as his following. No need. Moncriith could handle any magician Quinnault de Tanos found.
    A niggle of doubt crept into his mind. Nimbulan and the boy had overpowered him. He’d had thread from Powwell’s cloak, strands of Myrilandel’s hair, and a splinter from Nimbulan’s old staff—purchased from Televarn before the Rover chieftain disappeared into Hanassa. All of the souvenirs had tasted the owner’s blood. His spell should have been more powerful than anything they threw at him.
    Except he had nothing from the girl child—Kalen. She’d thrown her old and ragged clothes into the hearth fire rather than let Moncriith have them. Perhaps that was the problem. She had been excluded from his spell and able to help Nimbulan in some way. Either that or the bit of Nimbulan’s staff had been false. Rovers were known to lie about everything. Except, Moncriith suspected, the Rover had a grudge against Nimbulan and wanted him dead.
    When next Moncriith met Nimbulan and Myrilandel, he would have an entire battlefield of blood and pain to fuel him. They would not survive his next attack. Would not survive long enough to have their marriage sanctified in a temple of the Stargods. Demons couldn’t be allowed to profane the sacraments.
    When Nimbulan and Myrilandel fell, so would the rest of the magicians and the demons that controlled them. Moncriith would be the only magician left in Coronnan. He would rule through his puppet, Kammeryl d’Astrismos for a time. The self-crowned king would die, too, when Moncriith no longer need him.
    His vision had become so real, he reached out a hand as if to grasp the image of himself as anointed priest-king of all Coronnan. No one would dare defy him once he ruled.
    He smiled at the army that awaited his command. One of them was Nimbulan’s spy. The young man from the school harbored a demon spirit disguised as a magic talent. Moncriith smelled the evil creature on the wind.
    Moncriith needed sacrificial human blood to begin his battle spells.
    An example must be made now, to all magicians, that their powers and interference would not be tolerated. His army would destroy the one who hid among them. That death would give him tremendous power to neutralize Nimbulan before he managed to summon demons.
    “Bring me the demonsniffers,” he ordered the young sergeant who stood beside him on the knoll. The two women and one old man who could smell magic in a person, but had no other magic talent themselves, had formerly been called “witchsniffers.” Moncriith gave them a more important role in this army—to root out spies and enemy magicians. They would have the privilege of marching at the fore of the army as they massed for battle tomorrow