The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

slipped away from the puddle of his talent. He darted a look to Scarface to see if this condemned the boy to a mundane life or not.
    Scarface replied with a tiny shake of the head, then lifted his chin ever so slightly toward the teenager’s puddle. It had spread within the grain of wood to reach his fingertips.
    Nimbulan relaxed a little. As long as he touched some portion of the table, his talent was safe.
    “By my vision from the Stargods and the authority of the Kaalipha, I claim your loyalty. I have the power to make you obey me.” Moncriith touched the partially coagulated blood on the hand and chanted a string of unrecognizable words.
    Even without his magic, Nimbulan recognized the spell the Bloodmage wove—a compulsion to follow him blindly.
    “We have to get out of here, fast,” he whispered to Scarface.
    “Not without my talent. If I grab it and run past the Bloodmage, he’ll know me for what I am.”
    “Is there another way out of here?”
    “Not unless you want to dig a hole through solid rock into the volcano.”
    “If we let him capture us, we’ll get into the palace. We can turn on him once we’re inside,” Rollett reminded them.
    Moncriith increased the volume of his chant. All around them, men’s faces took on glazed looks. Already the need to obey pushed at Nimbulan. He willed it aside.
    “On my count of five, grab your talent and run for the door, don’t try to attack the Bloodmage, and don’t look back,” Nimbulan murmured to the men closest to him. “Whatever you do, don’t touch Moncriith or that bloody artifact. If you do, you will be marked by magic, and he’ll be able to follow and command you anywhere.”
    Five men nodded. Nimbulan kept his eyes on Moncriith, waiting for the crucial moment between partial awareness while he set up the spell and a full trance when he had total command of everyone within reach of his aura.
    “One . . . two . . . three, four, five!” Nimbulan closed his eyes, wrapped both hands around the tiny sapphire beacon on the table and dashed for the door.
    Moncriith ended his chant and spread his arms to gather the auras of all the men in the room.
    Nimbulan ducked and rolled past the Bloodmage. Moncriith’s hand brushed his shoulder. He opened his eyes wide, fully aware.
    “Nimbulan! There. Grab the foreign magician. Yaassima will reward us greatly for his head!” Moncriith shouted.
    Rollett stumbled into Moncriith, knocking the heavier man off balance. He fell against the table Nimbulan and the others had just vacated. The bloody hand flew out of Moncriith’s grasp and landed flat against Rollett’s chest.
    The young man’s eyes glazed over. His mouth gaped slightly. He turned and faced Moncriith, obedient and docile.
    In unison with the men in the wineshop, Rollett unsheathed his sword and marched after Nimbulan.
     
    Sweat broke out on Televarn’s brow and under his arms. His legs twitched restlessly beneath his sleeping furs. He flung out his arms seeking his bedmate. His mate. His bride.
    Myrilandel.
    He clutched only cold air within the Rover cavern in Hanassa. Thirty-three days she had been his in that secluded cove on the Great Bay. His, body and soul. Over a year had passed since he had possessed her unconditional love.
    Over a year since she had deserted him. Myrilandel, the only woman who had ever left him . He couldn’t rest until he bedded her again and wiped the memory of Nimbulan from her mind.
    Enough! He thrust his sleeping furs into the corner. He’d not wait another day to wrest control of Hanassa from Yaassima’s hands. By the time the sun set again, he would claim Myrilandel as his wife, and together they would dip their hands in the Kaalipha’s blood.
    “Get up.” He kicked his uncle in the small of the older man’s back. “Marshal all of our people and give them weapons. We storm the palace from within and without at dawn.”
    “Where are you going?” Uncle Vaanyim groaned and pressed his hands where Televarn had kicked him. Then he sat up and rubbed his eyes sleepily.
    “To claim some favors a scar-faced mercenary owes me.”
    “What about the slaves, do we arm them, too?”
    “Why not? We need numbers of people to overwhelm the guards before they can slap their wands and freeze us all.”
    “The slaves may turn on us and try to escape.”
    “So what? They will cause more chaos at the gates. Arm everyone you can find. If you run out of weapons here, you know where we have stored the extras in the