The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

in his pack looked like more rags. He wound these around his head in a slipshod turban. Durt on his face and a stooped posture, dependent upon his staff for support, transformed him into an out-of-luck mercenary from Rossemeyer, seeking employment with the gangs of mercenaries headquartered in the city.
    Rollett looked a little firmer of step, but equally ragged in his black robe and disintegrating turban. His own dark beard hadn’t been shaved since the morning before the battle and effectively covered the lower half of his face in shadow.
    Nimbulan worked his way around the back side of the boulders so he could approach the gate from the direction of the stairway. Rollett followed silently. The sound of shuffling feet and a mournful dirge sung by a few male throats brought them to a hasty halt.
    Nimbulan peered over the cliff edge toward the staircase. Nothing. The sounds echoed in the thin mountain air, defying direction. He extended his FarSight with the few reserves of dragon magic he’d gathered from Seannin.
    Around the side of the mountain, on a narrow trail, level with the gate, marched several dozen people. An aura of despair, hunger, and fatigue hung over the marchers. Their emotions beat against Nimbulan’s heightened sensitivities. Beyond hatred and anger, they plodded through a routine guided by heavily armed guards.
    As the group came closer, Nimbulan saw with his normal eyesight heavy, iron collars around their necks. Slaves! his mind screamed in outrage. No one had the right to own another human being. No one!
    The Stargods had outlawed slavery a thousand years ago, likening it to the horrible human sacrifices demanded of the ancient demon Simurgh.
    Outrage and disgust almost pushed him to confront the guards and free the captives. Where would they go in these trackless mountains without supplies, a leader, and a destination? How could he get into the city to free his wife if he disrupted the routine so boldly?
    Breathing deeply to calm his rapid pulse, he clung to his hidden position, observing the sentries and their curious wands.
    As he expected, the troop of slaves with their eight guards halted abruptly on the little plateau by the gate. The slaves ceased walking in unison, almost as if minds and bodies were controlled by a magician. Televarn’s Rover magic could do that. Nimbulan had barely escaped the man’s magical manipulation. He’d been looking for it and blocked the spell with his own magic. What could these poor slaves do against so insidious a master?
    The rear guards set aside a pile of pitchforks, hoes, and rakes. None of the slaves carried the tools. They might use them as weapons on the march back from the fields. How were they controlled in the fields?
    The two sentries with wands slapped the instruments against a rock—the same rock they’d used before. Instantly the high-pitched ringing assaulted Nimbulan’s ears. He resisted the urge to hide his head and block the sound with magic. He had to know how mundanes reacted to the noise.
    Every one of the slaves froze in place. The guards with the wands moved among them, passing the magical instruments up and down, seeking. Seeking what?
    As the guard approached a tall man in the center of the slave group, his wand glowed hot green, as if lit by fire within. The guard’s partner searched the immobile slave with his hands, slapping the man hard. He lingered in the region of the slave’s waist. Then he pulled a metal belt buckle out from under the man’s loose shirt. The wand faded back to its normal black iron color.
    Farther down the line, the guards discovered an assortment of metal buttons and eyelets among the slaves’ ragged clothing. None of the slave collars or leg shackles reacted with the wands.
    Curious. The iron must be specially treated. Nimbulan wondered if he could analyze the shackles and fabricate weapons of a similar material.
    “They’re clean,” the sentry announced. At last the obnoxious humming ceased. The slaves roused from their stupor and shuffled forward, through the gate as if they hadn’t been standing frozen in place for several long minutes. Nimbulan longed to dash forward and cross the threshold with them. The sentries resumed their watchful stance. He’d never get past them.
    He had to divest himself of any metal not part of his disguise. Reluctantly he removed his glass from his pocket and directed Rollett to do the same. Unwrapping the layers of silk protection, he revealed the large