The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

possess gold and are willing to make more gold. Only gold matters to mundanes.”
    He threw another stick into the greedy flames. The fire burned too hot. The smoke climbed too high before spreading out and engulfing the opposing magicians. He called up more wind. Harder to do that now. Why?
    The dragons, dimly visible above the battlefield withdrew. The magic disappeared with them. Ackerly delved into the store of magic within his body. The Commune hadn’t figured out how to do that yet. He’d stumbled on it by accident. Only he knew that unlike the old magic, this new power could be stored for later use. The dragons didn’t have to be present for him to work magic.
    “I’ll see you in chains before this day is done, Nimbulan. And I will rejoice because you will be my servant and your dragons will help me. Dragons like gold. They hoard and treasure it. My gold makes me one with them. Only me!” he chortled as he danced around the fire. He made a full circle, skipping and hopping, clapping his hands.
    Moncriith looked at him strangely.
    “You have your rituals, I have mine,” Ackerly yelled back at the man with knife scars all over his face, hands and body, from where he’d drawn blood to fuel his magic.
    Moncriith didn’t understand true power either. His scars marked him as a powerful Bloodmage. He created fear wherever he went. But he had no gold. Only gold bought power.
    As Ackerly laughed again, the wind shifted. He gulped a great draught of the smoke. Dizziness shifted and fractured his vision. He covered his mouth with his sleeve and breathed deeply through the fabric.
    Some of the poisonous smoke leaked through. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he coughed heavily, trying to rid his body of the smoke and yet still breathe. He felt as if he’d stumbled into one of Lord Kammeryl’s torture devices. Iron bands constricted his chest, pressing tighter. Tighter yet. Squeezing the life from him. Tighter.
    Ackerly tried desperately to erect a barrier between himself and the deadly smoke. His store was empty. There was no more magic in the air to gather.
    His lungs froze in the poisonous smoke.
    (We refuse you the magic. You do not work for unity and peace,) a disapproving voice came into his mind.
    “Help me!”
    (You must help yourself.)
    Darkness took Ackerly’s mind. Pain kept him awake. The smoke grew thicker. Dirt pressed into his mouth and nose. Air. I have to have air. . . .
    At least my gold is safe. No one will find it in three hundred years.
     
    Moncriith took a whiff of the noisome air. Memories of his own trial by the Tambootie smoke swirled around him like coils of suffocating mist. His visions of demons had been prophetic. They took the form of women, naked from the waist up—voluptuous women with pale skin and fair hair. Magretha, his first love with her lush and welcoming bosom. Other lovers, all whores. All the demons he saw in the smoke had hideous lower halves with numerous snakelike limbs that coiled around throat and heart, crushing him to near death while titillating his male parts to excruciating fullness. At the time, he’d been frightened for his very soul. Now with the wisdom of experience and time, he knew the monsters for what they were. Demons that plagued Coronnan and made magicians their slaves.
    Myrilandel was their leader. ’Twas her face he’d seen surrounded by a cloud of pale, almost colorless hair in those smoke demons. She had taken human form, but he knew her and his lust for her could be countered only by cleansing fire.
    Moncriith saw her standing next to Nimbulan, slim and beautiful, with hair as pale as moonlight. Her beauty and feigned innocence had been designed to capture men’s hearts. ’Twas Myrilandel’s demonic influence that caused Magretha to betray Moncriith with other men—his own father. ’Twas Myrilandel’s demonic spirit that had driven his anger and hurt at the betrayal into a killing rage. But for her, he would have run away from Magretha and his father. Myrilandel had driven him to use magic to murder them.
    But the demon had pulled Magretha from the flaming hut, leaving Moncriith’s father to die a terrible death. Myrilandel must suffer the same death by fire. Magretha had. He’d finally tracked her down and consigned her to holy fire. Now it was Myrilandel’s turn. She was to blame. She had to be the cause of all his grief. Myrilandel had tempted him. Forced him. Betrayed him. . . . He couldn’t have done those terrible things