The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

a snap of his fingers without leaving the parapet. He breathed a deep sigh of satisfaction that the simple spell worked. Then he levitated the first cauldron onto the frame above the fire. He controlled it until it was firmly settled. His mind whirled as he withdrew from the levitation. Thirty years as a Battlemage and he couldn’t think beyond the first assault. Where was his mind?
    (With Myrilandel,) a voice in the back of his head reminded him. (Think long. Think like a dragon. Myrilandel is part of the whole.)
    “If we still had some catapults, we could fling burning oil at the ships,” Quinnault suggested.
    “Witchfire would be better. Only a new spell can extinguish it. It can be guided more accurately than oil and will also give us enough light to pinpoint the ships.” Nimbulan’s mind started working again. He latched onto familiar patterns of strategy and battle plans. “But we don’t have any catapults. We dismantled our siege engines after the last battle. We thought the wars ended, so we used the timbers in the new wing of the palace as a reminder of the devastation we brought on ourselves.”
    The two men stood in silence a moment, remembering that awful day when Quinnault had been forced into single combat with his archrival, Kammeryl d’Astrismos. His priestly training hadn’t prepared him for the dirty fight that ended with Kammeryl dead and Quinnault nearly so. Only Myri, with Amaranth’s aid, had brought her brother back from the brink of death.
    Now Amaranth was dead, and Myri was missing. Nimbulan cursed himself for letting his mind drift from the coming battle. He couldn’t do anything about Myri until this battle ended.
    What would he do once she was safe? She couldn’t return to Coronnan. He had responsibilities here. Magicians weren’t meant to be family men. He had no precedents to latch onto.
    “Some of Kammeryl’s engines were abandoned and left to rot,” Quinnault mused. “I wonder if they’re still usable? Who can you spare to go check? The old man?” He pointed out Lyman’s white head amidst the younger men at the edge of the forest.
    “Old Lyman might surprise all of us before the day is through. But you’re right. He’ll be more useful locating a couple of catapults than wearing himself out hauling trees.”
    Nimbulan checked the level of the sun. The red-yellow orb of light eased past high noon toward the horizon. The turning tide hummed in his blood. His sensitivity to the planet told him precisely how long before the flood tide allowed passage across the mudflats. He looked downriver toward the Bay and the line of ships hovering offshore. Dared he waste a little precious magic to check the decks for signs of activity? No. The armada would hoist sail at sunset. Not before.
    He watched the waves a moment, noting how high they reached on the mudflats. Each one drowned more of the shore than the previous one.
    He and his teams hadn’t nearly enough time for all that needed to be done.

Chapter 8
     
    “R emove that squalling child from my presence if you cannot control her,” Yaassima screamed. The Kaalipha wrenched a handful of her own white-blond hair, as if tearing it from her scalp could ease the headache the baby’s fretful crying caused.
    Shyly, Myri covered her breast and rose from her chair at the head of the Justice Hall. She’d endured today’s Dispensation of Favors for as long as she could tolerate it. Moncriith stood at the back of the former temple to Simurgh, glaring at her while she nursed the baby.
    “Whore of Simurgh!” he mouthed a curse at her. The hatred in his eyes dominated all of the emotions swirling about the Justice Hall. Myri’s distress at his presence must have reduced her milk and upset her child.
    Nursing a baby in public was one of the most natural and proud acts a woman could perform. But the assassins and thieves, including Moncriith, who looked to Yaassima for work and pay, were a hardened lot who viewed any woman’s breasts as objects of unbridled lust. Even the women among the outlaws stared at her with moist lips and wide eyes.
    Myri wondered how long Moncriith would feign obedience to Yaassima. He didn’t usually accept anyone’s authority but his own. Unless he wanted to use Yaassima in some convoluted plot before he murdered her. And drew magical power from her pain and death.
    Myri had almost reached the stairway leading to the royal suite when Yaassima’s words stopped her cold. “Take the child to the wet