The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

boiling molten lava within the heart of the volcano but a secluded glen within a low-land forest. Tall trees bordered a nearly perfect circular clearing with a small campfire in the exact center. A moment later Televarn ran across the clearing and dove into the archway. Two men from the School for Magicians chased him, brandishing clubs.
    The Rover chieftain landed in the cave on his belly just as the colors swirled again and changed to the boiling lava in the pit.
    Hastily, Televarn picked himself up and limped past Old Bertha. He looked around quickly, but Yaala was on the other side of Old Bertha and Powwell ducked into the machine’s shadow. The Rover whistled a jaunty tune as he brushed caked mud from his trews and vest. Then he strode into the nearest exit cavern, dragging his right leg slightly.
    “Did you see that, Yaala? It was Televarn, I swear it, he walked out of the pit into this cave.”
    “Illusions, Powwell. The heat plays tricks on you until you get used to it. Take a long drink, then help me disconnect this valve.”
     
    Quinnault cantered slightly ahead of his escort on Buan, his favorite fleet steed. A year ago, he had ridden the length and breadth of Coronnan without a servant or body-guard. Back then he was merely one lord trying to persuade, coerce, or browbeat the other lords into accepting peace. No one cared if he fell victim to the marauding armies or packs of outlaws that roamed the countryside at will. Today he was king. Many people surrounded him, guaranteeing his safety.
    But these mundane guards hadn’t stopped the Rover form poisoning his cup. He wished Nimbulan hadn’t gone on his dangerous quest. Quinnault didn’t really feel safe without his chief adviser and Senior Magician.
    Why hadn’t Nimbulan told him he was leaving? He hadn’t even left a note or message for his king and friend.
    Quinnault missed the solitude of his former life. Long rides between strongholds had offered him periods of intense meditation. Now he only found time to ride after supper or when on business as king. He never rode alone. So he kneed Buan into a slightly faster pace. The dozen soldiers who rode behind him urged their own mounts to keep up. But they stayed a discreet two-dozen steed-lengths behind him.
    He’d left Konnaught behind with a long series of sword exercises to perform. The brat wouldn’t allow him this brief illusion of solitude. What could he do with the boy?
    Quinnault wouldn’t arbitrarily exile or imprison Konnaught. Execution was out of the question for all but the most violent crimes. He wouldn’t allow himself to become the kind of tyrant who made up laws to suit his whims and then broke them when convenient. The new laws required a crime proved to judges before such a sentence could be considered.
    Konnaught was too smart to let himself be caught in an active plot to overthrow Quinnault.
    The road curved ahead of him, just before it entered a stretch of woodland—a former haven for outlaws. Heedless of possible ambush, he rode without slowing into the evening shadows gathering beneath the trees.
    He needed to think, and think hard before full darkness forced him to return to the palace. An apprentice magician rode with the soldiers. He could provide torches of witchlight, but that wasn’t enough illumination to ward off predators and light their way home.
    He pelted around the next curve, completely losing sight of his escort. The last of the afternoon sunshine dropped into deep twilight. Shadows stretched out to enfold the road in mystery. Buan faltered a step as the road became muddy. Huge clods of the sloppy road sprayed behind him. The sun rarely reached this deep into the woods to dry the trader’s road.
    Buan slowed of his own accord. Quinnault loosened his short sword as he searched for whatever bothered the steed.
    Something light and wispy fluttered across the road. Buan shied. Quinnault fought the beast with knees and reins. He needed all of his skills to stay mounted.
    Buan circled and snorted. His skin rippled and twitched nervously. He pranced and circled.
    Quinnault curbed him, resenting the concentration required to control the steed. He needed to know what had startled Buan. The now familiar short sword fit his hand comfortably. Stargods, how he resented the need to carry a weapon when Coronnan should know peace from violent crime as well as war.
    “What is it, boy? You don’t usually fuss about a bit of evening mist.” He soothed Buan with a quiet