The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

forehead. Behind him lay the corpse of a man wearing the black uniform of Kaalipha Yaassima’s personal guard. His throat had been slit. His mouth was frozen in a scream of horror.
    “Nastfa!” Myri choked at sight of the man.
    “I name him traitor,” Moncriith replied. “He fell victim to the seduction of the demons within you, Myrilandel. He had to die. What better way than as sacrifice to give me enough magic to stop you once and for all?” He cocked his head and smiled almost amiably.
    The Bloodmage was insane, Powwell realized. Moncriith had murdered a man and mutilated himself, again, to fuel his fanaticism.
    “With my head and my heart and the strength of my shoulders, I reject this evil.” Powwell signed the cross of the Stargods. Beside him, Yaala did the same.
    “The Stargods can’t protect you. They are with me,” Moncriith proclaimed. “Prepare to die!”
    Nimbulan’s hand landed on Powwell’s shoulder. The familiar blending and surging of power pulled the last remnants of dragon magic out of Powwell. He fought the light-headed emptiness. He had to stall while Nimbulan prepared a defensive spell. The dragons wouldn’t allow an attack fueled by their magic, only defense.
    But an attack might very well bring a dragon to them posthaste. He hoped Nimbulan realized this or read his thoughts. He had to stall.
    “Where’s Kalen?” Powwell asked again. “You came through the dragongate in Hanassa. Kalen was the only one left there who knew its secrets.”
    “She and Yaassima died opening the gate for me. Their deaths shifted the vortex to take me directly to my troops. I was the last person through before the tunnels and caverns collapsed behind me. The demon’s gate is closed forever.”
    “You bastard!” Powwell launched himself at the Bloodmage. Rage turned his vision red. Vaguely, he heard Nimbulan protest the separation between them and the division of the magic.
    He didn’t care. The only thing that existed for Powwell was Moncriith and the need to kill the Bloodmage. Fingers flexed, he aimed for Moncriith’s eyes. Soft skin squished beneath his jagged and dirty fingernails. He felt a satisfying gush of hot blood against his palms.
    Inside his tunic, Thorny hunched. Sharp spines penetrated Powwell’s clothing to prick his chest. His emotional contact with the hedgehog strengthened his anger and his determination to kill Moncriith.
    He kicked back at the men who tried to pull him off of Moncriith. He heard screams and closed his ears to them.
    Someone pressed a dagger against his throat. He didn’t care. Moncriith had killed Kalen. Moncriith had to die. Powwell would gladly die with him as long as the Bloodmage died. Painfully. Messily.
    “Powwell, no.” Myri’s quiet command penetrated the red blur of pain and fury. “He’s not worth murdering.”
    Powwell didn’t release his grip on the now screaming Moncriith. Thorny relaxed his spines. Powwell refused to follow his familiar’s lead.
    “Amaranth isn’t old enough to separate herself from the victims around her. Kill Moncriith and you kill the baby.” Nimbulan reminded him quietly. “Do you want my daughter’s death on your soul as well as his?”
    Moncriith roared triumphantly as he broke Powwell’s grip on his face with a mighty thrust. Powwell flew backward, landing on his butt with a harsh jar that sent his head spinning.
    The note of exultation in Moncriith’s pain shook Powwell more than Myri’s words or the spine numbing fall. How could the man revel in the pain?
    Then he knew. As soon as Moncriith’s blood had touched his hands, Powwell had felt a surge of strength and power. His own pain from the prick of Thorny’s spines added to it. He had tapped blood magic without thinking. The rage drained out of him. His stomach twisted into a knot.
    “To me, Powwell. I need your magic,” Nimbulan called. His hands rose up, palm outward, fingers curved, to catch the magic hurled by Moncriith.
    Powwell struggled to get his feet beneath him. They wouldn’t cooperate. Yaala’s hand grasped his belt and propelled him in Nimbulan’s direction. He landed facedown in the dirt, one hand touching his teacher’s scuffed boot.
    Tingles worked their way up from the ground, through him. He lay across a ley line that begged him to tap its energy.
    Useless.
    Nimbulan couldn’t combine with ley line energy. They needed dragon magic. Powwell’s store was empty.
    Nimbulan faltered in his defense. His own store of magic must