The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

authority for all to see.”
    “A king must learn other ways to earn his authority,” Quinnault reminded him—again. “If you keep me waiting, I’ll double your time tomorrow studying the history of Coronnan.” Quinnault smiled to himself. That was a chore he would enjoy, but he knew Konnaught hated reading and ciphering, thought them demeaning skills.
    Today, Lord Konnaught would do something else he hated.
    The boatmen could always use an extra pair of hands on the oars. Nothing like rowing against the tide all day to make a man out of an arrogant stripling.
     
    From the top parapet, Nimbulan watched the teams of men, nobles and common laborers, mundanes paired with magicians, as they felled trees from the nearest mainland forest. Every magician carried a few threads of Nimbulan’s formal blue robe, or strands of his hair, to connect them to him—a trick of illegal rogue magic. But the mundanes didn’t need to know that. None of the magicians had enough dragon magic left to survive this battle.
    Through those connections Nimbulan monitored the sharpness of the blades and the positioning of the fallen trees.
    His palms burned with sympathetic blisters. He rubbed his tender hands against his tunic. The new dye rubbed off the worn leather. Now his hands tingled with the coloring chemicals as well as the raw nerve endings.
    At least the magic was working. He could keep the channels of communication open and think clearly enough to make decisions. As soon as this battle was over—win or lose—he would leave in search of Myri.
    Sighing heavily, he turned his attention back to supervising the defense preparations. He hoped the actual battle progressed more favorably and swiftly than the hard work of the day.
    Teams of magicians and fishermen levitated the felled trees into the river where local boatmen guided the untrimmed timber out into the mudflats.
    Would they be able to fell enough trees to fill the mudflats with traps? Aching shoulders joined his smarting palms as evidence of their attempt. Nimbulan prayed to the Stargods they had enough time and strength. There wouldn’t be much magic left in the kingdom after today—dragon or rogue. But they had to use it all to save the kingdom.
    Several nobles joined the numerous soldiers and farmers in the hard work. Quinnault had been among the boatmen earlier along with the arrogant brat, Konnaught. Master magicians and apprentices worked as hard as the men more used to using the strength of their bodies than the power of mind and magic.
    Hanic and a few other nobles had suddenly found other places to be—a long way away from the city. Nimbulan was surprised Konnaught hadn’t managed to find a way to join them.
    Nimbulan was the Battlemage once more, responsible for all the lives that surrounded him. Never again, he vowed. He’d sworn the same oath a year ago when he organized the final battle of the civil war that had crippled Coronnan for three generations. There has to be a better way. If only I can find it.
    “Such a waste of timber,” King Quinnault groaned as he climbed the last few steps to Nimbulan’s parapet. They watched a fifty-foot tree tilt and smack the ground. “I had plans for those trees, building, export. . . .”
    “Books.” Nimbulan regretted the loss, too. “Trees will grow again, given time. The cleared area can be plowed and planted. New trees can be started in old, worn-out fields. As long as we save the kingdom tonight, all will work out. Somehow.”
    “I certainly hope so.” Quinnault shaded his eyes and peered out toward the bay.
    “I thought you were helping with the trees, Your Grace.”
    “I was. I got tired of Konnaught’s whining. And I thought some of the others would work themselves into heart attacks if I remained down there much longer. They seemed to have to prove they could work harder, longer, and faster than me.” The king flashed a wide grin at his magician.
    Both men chuckled. A year ago, those same lords were more interested in murdering each other than striving for a common defense.
    “They seem to forget, I spent this autumn hauling loaded fishnets to help feed our growing population. Last winter I built bridges among these islands. I’m used to hard work. They aren’t.” Quinnault rubbed his shoulders lightly, more an easing of tightness than a massage of an ache.
    Together, they watched two fishermen—and surprisingly, Konnaught—in a flat-bottomed skiff ram the first tree into the mud beside