The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

the clearing. No one suspected that the animal’s keen sense of smell might lead him back to the dragongate and home. He had to keep Thorny hidden from the guards.
    A guard prodded him with a boot to his lower back. Powwell fell to his knees, careful to protect Thorny. Another boot connected with Powwell’s ribs. He collapsed onto his other shoulder and side. The pain barely registered in his mind. Better to die here than face the pit. Thorny could escape and seek out Kalen. She would need a familiar since Wiggles had deserted her about a week after they arrived in Hanassa.
    The guards grabbed his arms and roughly pulled him to his feet. Somehow he found the strength to stand on his own. They resumed their march forward to doom.
    Take heart! a voice whispered into his mind. The brief contact slithered in and out of his head. He heaved a momentary sigh of relief and filled his lungs with air.
    “Kalen?” he asked aloud, wondering if, in his despair, he had imagined her voice. But he had air to breathe. Kalen knew of his problems when underground. Her presence helped his lungs relax and use what little air he found.
    “Shut up, prisoner,” the guard to his right shoved a fist into his damaged ribs. “You can gibber all you want once we deliver you to the pit.” Quickly he unlocked the gate with one of the hollow wands.
    Kalen? Powwell cast out with his mind in search of the girl’s light mental touch.
    Stay alive. At all costs stay alive. I will rescue you!
    Definitely Kalen’s voice. There and gone again before he could latch onto it.
    “How, Kalen?” he whispered with mind and voice.
    “I said, shut up.” The guards lifted Powwell off the ground and heaved him toward the menacing red glow.
    Powwell slammed against the uneven ground. His already bruised ribs exploded in agony. The noise of the clanging gate rivaled the awesome sounds rising from the pit. He barely heard the guards running away, their bootheels echoing along the tunnel walls.

Chapter 12
     
    “L et’s go eat. I feel as if my stomach is wrapped around my backbone,” Nimbulan said. “Then I must sleep. The ambassador from Rossemeyer and the one from SeLenicca can wait until you have seen a healer, Quinnault.”
    Quinnault looked back across the Bay at the destroyed armada. A touch of wonder crossed his face. “I can’t say I want to do battle like this again. I want Coronnan to be respected for trade and peace and wise councillors, like you. But I can’t see how we can avoid more battles as long as other countries lust after our land and the fish in this Bay. I’ve listened to proposals for dredging a couple of channels to let trading ships in. Where traders can sail, navies will follow.”
    “What we need is a protected ferry service from the deep waters to the city,” Nimbulan mused, following Quinnault’s gaze to the mudflats glistening in the starlight.
    Midnight, his body told him. The tide would be at its lowest within the hour. Perhaps he’d manage a few hours of sleep before Quinnault and his boundless energy dragged him out of bed at dawn.
    Maybe he should leave on his quest for Myri before then. Before the king could once again deny him permission to depart. Myri was worth the loss of a little sleep.
    But how far would he get before the depletions of his body stopped his quest?
    “There are a couple of little islands out there.” Quinnault pointed east with his uninjured left arm. “We could set up loading docks there to transfer cargo and passengers. What I wouldn’t give for some Varn diamonds now to pay for building a port city out there.”
    “Good plan. We’ll find the money somehow. The Varns aren’t due to come trading for another fifty years or so. Can we eat now?” Nimbulan took two long steps toward the stairs, dragging Quinnault away from his contemplation of the Bay. The king winced as he sidestepped to retain his balance.
    “Time for you to see a healer. We’ll find one faster over on School Isle. That’s where the wounded are being taken.” Nimbulan offered a supporting hand to guide Quinnault down the steep stairs.
    “I’ll row you over to School Isle. We collapsed the bridge in case we were invaded. The old causeway isn’t stable since that last series of winter storms undercut it.” Quinnault shrugged off any hint of assistance.
    Once before, Nimbulan had ventured out in a leaking boat with Quinnault. They’d both nearly drowned before they crawled ashore on Haunted Isle. Now the