The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

lanced through her. She sent him strength along the line of her mind. “Release your wings, Amaranth. Catch the wind and fly upward, quickly.” Her arms stiffened and rose in sympathy with the attitude he needed to assume.
    Amaranth reached with his back claws to grasp the fish that wasn’t there. His wings stretched and he rose with his prize. The dark strands of netting tangled around his hind legs, trailing backward into the waves. The weight of the saturated strands dragged him back.
    “Drop it, Amaranth! Drop it before it pulls you beneath the water and drowns you.”
    As Myri watched, the net moved in the air currents to ensnare his front paws as well.
    He fought the net, beating at it with his teeth and wingtips as he strove for elevation.
    “Come ashore, quickly.” Myri caught her breath again, praying he had enough strength to fly the last little bit.
    “Merwack,” he chirped in a more normal tone. He stretched his neck forward, toward the sandy beach, still fighting the net.
    Myri scrambled down the cliff face below the cave entrance.
    Amaranth extended his talons and backwinged for landing. The net flew upward catching a wingtip and dragging it down.
    Myri caught her breath, praying that Amaranth could land safely under his own strength.
    The flywacket’s left wing collapsed under the weight of the net. He plummeted to the beach below him.

Chapter 11
     
    “A maranth!” Myri ran toward the tide line where saltwater lapped at the flywacket flailing about in the sand. The net tangled tighter with each flap of wing and thrash of foot.
    He whimpered in growing frustration. The pain from the net tightening around his legs like a noose lashed her mind as well as his body.
    “Stay still, Amaranth. I’m coming.” She skidded the last few feet, landing on her knees.
    At last she reached out with a single finger to touch his wing.
    “Hisscht!” He warned her how much he hurt. His claws extended into full talons.
    “Why did you go after that fish, my precious? You could have waited and shared mine,” she said softly.
    (I had to. The hunger would not wait.) The flywacket relaxed a little at the sound of her voice, retracting his claws. His eyes remained fearful and glazed with pain.
    Memory of the hunger that had assaulted her at the moment of his dive puzzled her. She hadn’t sensed the need for food in him a moment before that, only his excitement.
    “You know I won’t hurt you Amaranth.” She spread her palm over his injury. Blue light glowed beneath her palm. Her talent pulled her toward the source of pain and repelled her at the same time. Energy drained from her arm into the flywacket with no apparent healing.
    With a strong effort of will, Myri reined in her talent before she drained herself. The blue light dimmed. “That has never happened before. Why won’t you accept the healing?”
    (Your healing is grounded in the Kardia. I am a creature of the air. The power of the healing must come from those who fly.)
    Myri untangled the net. It relaxed at her touch where a moment before it had seemed almost alive as it wound around and around Amaranth in ever tightening loops.
    “You’re only bruised and tired.” She smiled at Amaranth. “Time and rest will do more for you than I can. But you must not use that wing until it is completely healed. I think your pride is damaged more than you are.”
    Amaranth sniffed with indignity. He gathered his feet beneath him and sat with his back to her, tail twitching. Keeping his damaged wing half-furled, he began his bath, carefully ignoring her.
    “When in doubt, wash,” Myri chuckled. “You’ll feel better after a bath.” She would, too. She couldn’t remember when she’d last had the opportunity. “I wonder if the bay is warm enough to swim in.”
    “Not at this time of year,” a deep male voice replied.
    “Who are you?” Myri stood hastily. She searched the crescent beach for potential enemies, wishing she was higher to get a better view.
    A solitary man stood about ten arm-lengths away. His smooth skin beneath a black, scraggly beard made him look to be about her own age. The squint lines around his dark eyes and weathered skin suggested a decade more in years.
    “You’re a Rover,” she stated the obvious. Only the nomadic traders wore the garish color combinations of black trews and embroidered vest, red shirt, green neckerchief, and a purple head scarf beneath a broad-brimmed, black felt hat that shadowed his eyes. No man native