The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

return, my Lord Quinnault. We’ll continue this discussion over a meal. Many issues lie unresolved.” Nimbulan plunged into the storm.
    “ Stargods! Hasn’t there been enough death today?” Quinnault raised his hands in supplication. “That fanatic Moncriith won’t be satisfied until he’s the only living soul left in Coronnan.”

Chapter 4
     
    W itchlight glowed through the bubble of armor around the huge hospital tent. Nimbulan looked up through the armor. Raindrops sizzled and evaporated when they touched the magical shields. The wind circled, howled, and sought new targets when it couldn’t attack the tent itself. He shuddered with a chill as several drops of cold rain penetrated the armor and his blue robe of oiled wool.
    Something was weakening the armor.
    Outside the tent, rows of wounded men waited beneath the bubble for their turn with a healer. Strangely, their comrades, battle-weary men who should be resting and eating, washed and cared for them. He’d never seen common soldiers tend the wounded before. That activity belonged solely to healer magicians.
    Shouts of anger and dismay disturbed the aura of peace that should have surrounded the hospital, along with the armor. Lumbird bumps climbed Nimbulan’s spine as the warmth faded and two more drops of rain worked through the magical armor to land on his head.
    The brawl within the tent must be disrupting the protective spells.
    Armed guards converged upon the tent door at the same time as Nimbulan.
    “Let me try to calm them before you use force to end this.” He waved the armed men to stand behind him.
    A sergeant held the tent flaps open for him. Eerie blue light surrounded a litter at the center of the tent. The blue was paler than Nimbulan’s robe which matched the signature color of his magic. Whoever was at the core of the light wasn’t one of his magicians.
    Wounded men filled row upon row of pallets, cots, and litters around the core of blue light. Three gray-robed healers stood in a sentinel circle around the core of the blue light, their backs to it. They held scalpels, saws, and other surgical implements as weapons. They seemed prepared to use them against the shouting men pressing toward the blue light.
    “Burning is the only cure for demon possession. We must take the girl to the funeral pyres and throw her into the purifying flames,” Moncriith shouted. The Bloodmage just barely reached medium height, yet he dominated the crowd of taller men. His faded red robe took on the color of old blood—indicative of his perverted style of magic.
    A shiver of disquiet snaked down Nimbulan’s spine. Moncriith pitched his voice to draw listeners into his aura and meld with his opinions, right or wrong.
    “Break her magic!” a wounded soldier called from a nearby pallet. “I saw her during the battle, her and her wicked familiar. They called the dragon what nearly killed me with its flames and talons.” He held up a hand burned by magic and raked by long furrows. Probably his own fingers had made those cuts, seeking to shed a ball of magic thrown by Nimbulan or Keegan during the battle.
    “I saw it, too,” another man agreed. His wounds weren’t evident.
    “Dragon dung!” Nimbulan pitched his voice to penetrate the verbal fray. No one paid him any heed.
    “She saved my life and three others that I know of.” A man with a bloody bandage around his head joined the healers in defense of the blue-lit litter.
    “Look what she’s doing for Sergeant Kennyth! He lost that arm saving me.” Another soldier limped to join the man with the head wound. “The witchwoman saved his life and she’s givin’ him back his arm, too. We owe her. Kennyth’s the best sergeant in the whole s’murghin’ army.”
    Moncriith advanced on the bubble of light. “Myrilandel wields the power of demons. No healer blessed by the Stargods can do the things she does. ’Tis unholy. ’Tis evil. The demons who possess her body will attack us all. Kennyth’s soul has already moved into another plane of existence. Yet his body lives. He will become her undead servant.”
    “Enough!” Nimbulan shouted. The ridgepole vibrated with the power of his voice.
    Silence reigned. All the participants turned to face the Senior Magician. Moncriith turned slowly, almost contemptuously, to confront a recognizable authority.
    “So you finally crawled out of your lair, Nimbulan,” Moncriith said without inflection.
    “You are not welcome here, Moncriith.”