The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

shaft of light off to the right distracted Nimbulan. He peered in the direction of the next island in the Coronnan River delta. Movement in a pattern contrary to the passage of wind in the shrubbery betrayed a presence. No unnatural colors revealed a silhouette, only the movement and the light.
    “Someone is hiding over there.” Lyman looked through his glass, aiming it at a shaft of sunlight to trigger the magic. “A man, dressed in green and brown and maybe black. I can see his aura but not his face or a signature color.”
    “Not a magician, then.” Nimbulan turned his gaze back to the flywacket.
    The light flashed again.
    Amaranth screeched and faltered.
    Nimbulan covered his ears against the high wail of sound that assaulted all of his senses, physical and magical. But he didn’t shift his gaze from the flywacket.
    Amaranth grew at an alarming rate. His black fur and feathers paled as he seemed to explode into a dazzling display of silver and purple. All of his black fur and feathers released the light they had absorbed until he reflected the sunshine away from his crystalline skin and hair.
    “He’s transforming into a dragon!” Nimbulan cried. “Why, Amaranth? Why go back to your natural form?” Once before he’d seen the flywacket burst free from the confines of his familiar shape. He’d flown to join the dragon nimbus as they hovered over the last battle of the Great Wars of Disruption—last spring.
    “He’s hurt. He’s dropping fast!” Lyman shouted. “The light. It must have been some kind of magical arrow. No normal shaft would penetrate his hide at this distance.” The old man began searching the other island, looking through the glass into a wisp of witchfire on his fingertip. “Nothing. No aura, no silhouette, just a ferret running in circles. It’s as if the man vanished into the void. Or took the animal’s form.”
    The silvery dragon wings caught an updraft. Amaranth stretched and banked into the soft air, slowing his descent. Only then did Nimbulan see the black spot on his hide, near his heart. The wound spread rapidly across the dragon’s chest.
    “We haven’t time to investigate the assassin. Send Quinnault’s guards. We have to take care of Amaranth,” Nimbulan said, stretching his arm wide again in invitation.
    “They search for one assassin already. Perhaps it’s the same one.” Lyman turned back to the trapdoor and called something down the stairwell.
    Nimbulan kept his eyes on Myrilandel’s familiar. “Easy, Amaranth. Land slow and easy.” He turned to Lyman. “Get a healer. Quick. We have to save him. He’s our only link to Myri.”
    “There isn’t enough time,” Lyman replied, already hastening down the stairs to the wide courtyard in front of the ancient keep. Nimbulan followed.
    “Will Amaranth talk to you, Nimbulan?” Lyman cleared the courtyard of guards, servants, and courtiers with a gesture and a stern look.
    “I hope so. He knows me. He’s my wife’s familiar.”
    “But do any of the other dragons talk to you?” As they emerged into the courtyard, Lyman whistled sharply, encouraging Amaranth to come to him. The noise pierced Nimbulan’s ears like dragon speech. “That’s right, Amaranth, come to me. I’ll help you,” Lyman coaxed.
    Amaranth seemed to heed the man’s advice and aimed for the court. He faltered and rocked.
    Nimbulan sensed his pain and uncertainty. “He’s losing consciousness. Moments of dizziness, then a brief recovery.”
    “You’re in rapport with him. He’ll let you touch his wound. Maybe he’ll let you heal him. I’ll seek his thoughts.” Lyman stepped back as the wind from the dragon wings blasted dust into their faces.
    “Do you speak with the dragons?” Nimbulan asked, amazed. He only heard the telepathic communication from the great beasts when they had something specific to say to him.
    “My link to the dragons is—different from Myri’s,” Lyman said. He offered no further explanation.
    Amaranth landed bellyfirst, scraping his muzzle on the packed dirt of the courtyard. The almost mature spiral horn on his forehead bent at an odd angle near the blunted tip. Wearily he lifted his nose a little and collapsed, wings half furled.
    Nimbulan rushed to the dragon’s side. Gingerly he probed with his fingertips to the center of the spreading black spot, over Amaranth’s heart. With his left hand, palm up and fingers slightly curved, he pressed under the wing joint, seeking a major blood vessel.