The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

pit.” Another advantage of the dragongate. Over the past two years, he’d brought in large numbers of swords, spears, and clubs from outside and hidden them in the rabbit warren of tunnels that led beneath the palace to the pit. The means of the Kaalipha’s destruction had never passed her guards with their detection wands.
    He reminded himself to force the secret of those wands from Yaassima before he lopped off her head with her own execution weapon.
    “Televarn, tell Scarface to bring all of his magician companions.” Uncle Vaanyim rolled stiffly to his knees. “We’ll need them to neutralize the wands at the palace gate.”
     
    What to do with the loose talent in his hands? Nimbulan wondered as he ran from the filthy wineshop.
    His table companions ran past him, also holding their magical abilities in their hands. They all needed a moment of quiet privacy to reabsorb the talents.
    Rollett. What had the boy done with his talent? Nimbulan needed his magic to break Moncriith’s spell upon the journeyman magician. But his talent made him an easily recognizable target.
    The sound of marching feet behind him spurred Nimbulan to run faster in his companions’ wake. He stumbled over an imperfection in the ground. His knee twisted under him with an audible crack. He resisted the urge to brace his fall with his hands. His face met the Kardia. A sharp rock stabbed his chest. Fire ran up his leg from the wrenched ligaments in his knee.
    “Spread out, men. Bring me that magician alive!” Moncriith ordered.
    The Kardia reverberated beneath Nimbulan’s body from the force of the men marching in unison. Probably thinking in unison, too. Televarn’s spells did that to his followers as well.
    Nimbulan turned over, still cupping his hands around his talent. He needed a place to hide it and himself. An inanimate object he could hold.
    His staff! Where in Simurgh’s hells was the thing?
    As he thought about his valuable tool, a long stick rolled toward him, resting against his hands where he held his talent. The staff had found the magic talent that had molded the grain and shaped the knobs and bends in the once straight tree branch.
    Quickly Nimbulan thrust the tiny blue beacon into the staff, a nearly inanimate object that Moncriith should not sense.
    He still had to break the Bloodmage’s hold upon Rollett. Perhaps there was a mundane method. What? Villagers used them all the time to break curses, real and imaginary. He’d never paid enough attention to the lives of people outside the army and the training of Battlemages. Myri would know.
    The footsteps came closer. Nimbulan tucked his miserable knee beneath him. He bit his lip until he tasted blood to keep from crying out in pain. Awkwardly he scrunched into the nearest shadow. His staff seemed to melt into the darkness with him.
    A blazing light illuminated the stretch of path he’d just measured his length against. He stared at the bloody hand that held aloft the witchlight. Moncriith. The Bloodmage had slashed his own palm to fuel the light.
    Nimbulan ducked his face deep within his folded arms to keep the light from reflecting off his pale skin. Through his closed eyelids, he sensed more light. Had Rollett added his own abilities to Moncriith’s?
    Stargods, he wished his talent was intact. But Moncriith would seek it out. Slay him on the spot and collect a huge reward for the deed.
    More light crept through his closed eyes. Moncriith must be flooding the area with balls of witchlight. The glow dimmed as the Bloodmage’s spell faded.
    He heard a cry, and the light blazed once more. Nimbulan winced in sympathy with whichever man suffered the slash of Moncriith’s wickedly sharp knife for the sake of a little more magic light. He had to rescue Rollett before he became a victim.
    If ever Moncriith’s compulsion on these hardened mercenaries fell apart, they’d turn on him. Nimbulan didn’t have time to wait for that, nor the privacy and peace to set a counterspell to Moncriith’s terrible compulsions.
    The footsteps moved on, more slowly as the men searched for Nimbulan with mundane senses. Or were they searching at all? Maybe only Moncriith looked. The mercenaries could be just following him. In which case, the Bloodmage would use his magic to seek Nimbulan’s magic. That brief touch in the wineshop had given Moncriith a glimpse of Nimbulan’s magical signature, all he’d need under normal circumstances.
    But Nimbulan’s magic was now embedded in