The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

creature. The sunlight rippled purple lights along his black fur and wing feathers.
    Myri held out her arm. Amaranth dropped lower, wings raised, claws extended. Fanning the air with backward sweeps he slowed and landed lightly on his accustomed perch. Quickly he folded his wings beneath their protective flaps and wrapped his tail around Myri’s neck for balance.
    “Ready?”
    (Yes.)
    Myri marched around the next bend in the trade road and into a quiet village.
    A woman emerged from the first hut carrying a bucket. Another woman stepped from the next home with a basket for gathering eggs. Together they turned and watched Myri’s approach.
    “Have you shelter for a weary traveler?” Myri asked with ritual humility.
    “Ye’re out a might early. Or you been traveling all night?” the Bucket Woman asked. “ ’Taint right for a woman to be traveling alone at night—or any other time.”
    “Makes no difference. We owe her hospitality, like any other traveler,” Basket Woman replied.
    “She could be a spy for the army. They’ll steal what little we have left. We won’t survive the winter if they claim our harvest.”
    “If you can call it a harvest,” Basket Woman snorted.
    “I have a little grain to share.” Myri offered her half-full pouch.
    “The red-robe told us to beware of spies with gifts.”
    “One good breakfast will prolong starvation a little. And that preacher doesn’t know everything. You’re welcome, stranger.” Basket Woman gestured with her free hand for Myri to enter her humble home. “The flusterhens are still laying, and there’s sausage.”
    Myri’s mouth watered and her stomach rumbled. “What preacher?” She clamped down on her hunger. Amaranth dug his claws deeper into her cloak in warning.
    The women looked to each other without answering.
    Myri set Amaranth on the ground, ready to run again. “What preacher?” she asked.
    “Moncriith,” Basket Woman said quietly.
    “ Sieur Moncriith warned us about witchwomen and their demon familiars.” Bucket Woman gave the man a priestly title. She backed away from Amaranth. “Sieur says we aren’t to give hospitality to any traveler. I respect the words of a priest. Only demons stray from their homes these days.” She dropped her bucket and crossed her wrists with a flapping motion. The flapping hands symbolized the ancient demon god Simurgh. The crossing acted as a ward against him.
    The sun pushed aside the thinning clouds, sending a shaft of light into the center of the village. The Equinox Pylon, its harvest decorations slightly wilted, glowed as if on fire. Myri backed up at the omen of fire.
    “I knew the Stargods would lead you back to me, Myrilandel.” Moncriith emerged from the first hut. His patched red robe seemed to glow in the growing light. Red for priestly orders or red for the blood he shed to fuel his magic? “ ’Tis time for you to face justice! My people are camped nearby. I will summon them to join the village elders. They will judge you for your demonic crimes.”
    Amaranth darted into the shelter of a woodpile beside the house. Myri dropped her pouch of grain and ran.
    Moncriith grabbed her around the waist before she had gone two steps. “You’ll not escape me again, Myrilandel, daughter of demons.”

Chapter 7
     
    M yri clawed at Moncriith’s restraining hands with her fingernails.
    He latched onto both her wrists with one strong, scarred hand.
    Desperate to escape the images of fire that leaked from his mind, she kicked at his booted shins with her bare feet. Sharp pain shot through her toes, hot and intense.
    She had to break free before his followers joined them and imprisoned her.
    Moncriith laughed. His thoughts broadcast into Myri’s receptive mind. She cringed away from the images of herself, naked, writhing within a bonfire.
    Myri’s imagination added details of pain in her own limbs. Green flame boiled around the edges of her vision. Her lungs gasped and labored with suffocating smoke that existed only in Moncriith’s mind.
    Or her memory?
    She remembered dragging Magretha from a burning hut. Flames had licked at her hands and singed her fine hair as she put all of her childish strength into escaping the fire with her unconscious guardian.
    The memory cleared the panic from her mind. Her strength pooled into her hands and feet. She focused on Moncriith’s posture and muscular tension for clues to his next action. Though she stood nearly as tall as he, he had the advantage of