The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

Ackerly’s distinctive gait and posture. (He flees Nimbulan’s wrath to the camp of the enemy of dragons. He will make certain there is a battle. Now you must survey this ground and plan ahead. Come, I will take you to the battlefield.)
    A short dragon flight took them to a different hillside overlooking a vast plain spreading more than a league toward the river.
    “Here?” Myri looked more closely at the flat ground surrounded on three sides by low hills. The rises on the east and west ends of the meadow rose more gently than where she stood. She turned a slow circle, pausing as she looked south where a chain of hills undulated upward in a familiar pattern.
    “Here.” She resigned herself to the inevitable. “They fought the last battle here. Last autumn, when I first met my husband.”
    (They fought the same battle here twenty years ago. The battle that loosed uncontrolled magic into the skies and nearly killed me. But this will be the last battle fought on this land.)
    “Strange that here I find a single stalk of fennel.” Myri plucked the elusive plant and cradled it in her hands like a living baby.
     
    Nimbulan warily eyed a burly lieutenant wearing the colors of Kammeryl d’Astrismos’ personal guard as the man marched up to the dais where Quinnault presided over a celebratory meal. The day was nearly finished and they had accomplished so little other than Rollett’s rescue. Now the various forces seeking power and control over Coronnan were poised for an inevitable convergence. A very destructive clash.
    Tonight the magicians and mudanes gathered in celebration of the successful rescue and one last attempt to make merry before they faced death in battle on the morrow.
    “In the name of His Majesty, Kammeryl the First, descendant of the Stargods, King of Coronnan, Master of Hanassa, and Lord of The Great Bay, I demand the surrender of this keep, its surrounding islands, all tenants and lease-holders, boats and vessels, and all buildings,” the soldier bellowed for all within Quinnault de Tanos’ Great Hall to hear. He held a parchment at arm’s length as if he read the document. He allowed it to roll shut with a snap before finishing his statement. Proof to Nimbulan that this man, like all mundanes, had never been taught to read.
    “But I do not recognize Lord Kammeryl’s authority as king. Nor do the seven lords who have signed my mutual defense treaty,” Quinnault said. He turned mild eyes up to the soldier for a brief moment, then returned to his meal as if that were much more important than the prattling of the soldier. Only the twitching of his fingers against his table knife betrayed his emotions.
    Nimbulan silently applauded the lord for his cool exterior. The soldier had to know that all of the united lords were too far away to send aid in time. Quinnault’s only hope for victory in battle lay with Lord Hanic, if he arrived in time. If he decided to help Quinnault and not Kammeryl.
    The soldier’s face colored briefly. He sucked in his cheeks and squared his shoulders. “Refusal of His Majesty’s demands will bring quick and terrible reprisal.”
    “Tell Lord Kammeryl the united lords will discuss this matter with him directly and not through an underling.” Quinnault waved his hand in dismissal. His long fingers made the movement graceful and compelling.
    Myri used the same gesture when she finished feeding her flusterhens in the clearing. Nimbulan clutched the little bag of fennel seeds Myri had given him on a thong to wear around his neck. Then he reached the same hand to squeeze her shoulder. Her love protected him more than any plant.
    The soldier stood his ground. “No discussion or delay is permitted. Either you accept the orders of your rightful king or you do not.”
    “Before we can acknowledge Kammeryl d’Astrismos as rightful anything,” Nimbulan said, “His Lordship must return the criminal Ackerly to Lord Quinnault for lawful judgment.” He stood from his chair on Quinnault’s right, pressing his fists against the table until his knuckles turned white. Anger at his assistant’s betrayal and his own lack of foresight closed his throat.
    Myri covered his hand with her own. Calm spread through him.
    The soldier paused, ducking his head and touching his right ear lobe with his right middle finger.
    “He’s being coached,” Nimbulan whispered to Quinnault. “Every word we say is heard by a magician in Kammeryl’s camp. They are instructing him now. Every