The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

he had enough strength, magical and physical, to get through the night.
    The fisherman who guided Quinnault’s boat rowed eagerly for the rapidly approaching fleet. A large wave lifted them nearly level with a larger ship’s deck. The tide neared flood stage; another hour would mark the highest water.
    Aboard the looming vessels in the invasion fleet, sailors leaned over the rails, pointing and laughing at the myriad small boats sent to deter them.
    Armor, men. Don’t forget the armor! Nimbulan ordered the magicians among the fishermen. The threads from his cloak and splinters from his staff kept the lines of communication open since they didn’t have any of the communal dragon magic left.
    Two heartbeats later, the invading sailors pelted the small boats with ballast rocks, spears, and debris. Much of it bounced off bubbles of magical armor and fell harmlessly into the waves. Two boats wobbled precariously as the flying objects forced men to lose control of their oars.
    Nimbulan sent hasty reminders to magicians in nearby boats to protect the faltering ones. They couldn’t afford to lose a single man or boat.
    The glowing reservoir of witchfire in the cauldron beside him picked out the sparkling magical shields now in place over each of the boats.
    One of the foreign vessels listed badly to port as it scraped the first of the submerged trees. Immediately Quinnault, in the lead boat, let loose a flaming arrow into that ship’s sails. Dozens more archers followed his lead.
    The ship veered off course. The rushing ride embedded the keel in the sucking mud. The ship’s captain frantically swung the wheel, trying to regain his course. The rudder jammed and refused to budge.
    “One down, forty-nine to go.” Nimbulan dropped his arm, and Lyman released the catapult that dominated the keep’s courtyard. A great ball of green witchfire flew through the air, almost faster than the eye could follow. As it sped over the bay, the millions of flamelets that made up the mass separated but did not lose intensity. Sails burst into flame when the witchfire found additional fuel in the canvas sails.
    Three ships lost control of their sails in an instant. They, too, ran aground as all hands rushed to douse flames that could not be extinguished by mundane means.
    Behind the vessels, half the tiny fishing boats moved close to the sterns of the ships still under control and heading for the islands. Nimbulan watched Quinnault fling a net outward, toward a ship’s rudder. The net spread and landed in perfect position to tangle in the steering rod.
    The king’s long hours of fishing paid off. He hauled the net tight. The ship swung sideways to the waves. The helmsman spun the wheel uselessly, further tangling the net.
    Other fisherman weren’t so lucky. They needed the extra guidance of the magicians before their nets ensnared more rudders.
    Nimbulan signaled for another catapult. Lord Konnaught appeared beside the war engine, seemingly rested, clean, and well fed when every everyone else showed the effects of a long day of hard work. Nimbulan repeated the signal. The boy pointedly turned his back on the magician. He spoke quietly to a grimy man wearing a blacksmith’s apron. The catapult remained firmly in place.
    Angrily, Nimbulan sent a line of communication to Lyman who monitored the cauldron of witchfire. The old magician limped over to the catapult. He grabbed Konnaught’s shoulder with his extra long fingers and forcibly turned the boy around.
    “I do not take orders from underlings,” Konnaught protested.
    Lyman tightened his grip and propelled the rebellious young man to the catapult. Konnaught jerked his hand forward—as if acting only under compulsion—and snapped the trigger. Then he looked up at Nimbulan. Hate filled his expression.
    Nimbulan couldn’t spare him a thought.
    Fire filled the sky. The nearest sail exploded in heat and unnatural light, dropping living flames upon the deck. Sailors and heavily armed mercenaries scrambled away from the blaze. Some jumped ship. A few remained behind, beating uselessly at the fire with heavy tarps and water.
    “Witchfire is created by magic. Only magic can douse it,” Nimbulan recited to himself. Silently he mourned the men who screamed out their dying agony aboard the ship. Some of the men fled to the sea. They flailed about in the heaving waves. Heavy robes and armor dragged them down. The deepening tide that allowed ships to sail through the mudflats now made