The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

it all before—with and without the magical enhancement to his sight that allowed him to view details across the entire plain. With luck and the help of the dragons, he would never have to see it again.
    This time Nimbulan opposed his oldest friend and former assistant, Ackerly, instead of a beloved apprentice. This time he had a nimbus of dragons hovering in the sky above. This time he had Myri to go back to at the end of a long day.
    He straightened from his contemplative pose. Instantly his assistants, Master Magicians, journeymen, and apprentices, jumped to the ready. Anticipation fluttered in his belly while apprehension sharpened his already-heightened eyesight and sense of smell. The scent of fear wafted up from the ranks of farmers and laborers hiding behind a delusion of armor and weaponry. A few had fought in battle before. A very few compared to the numbers gathered in the attacking army.
    A trick of the light quadrupled the men’s shadows in Quinnault’s army. Kammeryl d’Astrismos would have a hard time accurately estimating the number and strength of the troops. But would the trick fool Ackerly and the Bloodmage?
    “This is the last time,” he declared to himself. “This must be the last battle.”
    Across the way, Nimbulan spied a bustle of activity around Ackerly’s robed form. He wore bright yellow today, the signature color of his own magic rather than Nimbulan’s blue.
    A second magician in formal robes of scarlet stepped to the front. He held up the carcass of a butchered goat for all to see. His ritual knife dripped red. The Bloodmage. Moncriith. Fear, pain, and the spilling of more blood on the field of battle would fuel his magic above and beyond the endurance of most solitary magicians.
    Would the combined might of the communal magic be enough to defeat him?
    “Never again, Bloodmage. Your kind will never practice magic in Coronnan again,” he vowed.
    Nimbulan raised his hand, palm outward, fingers slightly curved, little finger crooked in a half circle. The temptation to spin the threads of the Kardia nearly overpowered him. “Force of habit.” He shook his hand free of the tingling ley lines radiating over the entire surface of the planet.
    “Gather dragons,
gather guardians,
magic bright and dear.
Gather power,
gather union,
Join the vision clear.”
     
    He commanded the men and boys assembled behind him. He felt the shuffling and aligning as they all joined hands. Rollett and Lyman each placed a hand on his shoulder to bring him into the chain of mounting power. His hands were free to throw the spells he devised in the course of the battle.
    Across the way, Ackerly wove his hands in an ancient pattern to call forth firebombs. The Bloodmage drew an arcane pattern in the grass at his feet with the bloodied ritual knife.
    A moment of inadequacy flashed before Nimbulan. He’d done this before as chief Battlemage for a powerful warlord. But never before had he performed this chore with so much at stake.
    “Peace,” he reminded himself. “We earn peace with this one last confrontation.”
    A dragon rose up into the sky from behind him. The rising sun caught the crystal outlines, showering the field with rainbows. He scanned the wingspan. Red. Rouussin. Nimbulan had learned all of their names, all of their histories last night. As they had learned his. The magicians and dragons worked today in true communion.
    The big male dragon craned his neck, peering directly at Ackerly and the Bloodmage.
    The Bloodmage recoiled, throwing his right arm, still holding the knife, over his eyes to shield him from the beneficent light.
    Ackerly laughed at the man’s fear. The traitorous assistant swelled his chest as he gathered the tremendous amount of dragon magic in the air.
    Between the two knolls, the army of Kammeryl d’Astrismos edged backward, bunching up in disorderly knots. They cowered away from the dragon, looking to the officers mounted on their flanks and to their rear for direction.
    Good. The space between the two armies widened appreciably, giving Nimbulan room to work his spell.
    “You want to play with fire, Ackerly? I’ll give you more fire than you bargained for.” He wished he’d had time to devise a specific tactic rather than randomly counter whatever the enemy threw at him.
    Lyman began the first line of the spell. Then all of the gathered Commune repeated the words in unison. Power built within them. Nimbulan spoke the words by rote, paying little heed to