The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

around the mixture, each one smaller and closer to the center than the previous one. As he completed each circle, he drew a special rune of enticement. He knew the spell would only work after she started her journey toward the grove. But she had to come here to feed.
    Energy streamed up the vibrating stick into his hand and arm. Each of his senses came into sharper focus. He saw the distinct outline of every tree, branch, and leaf within the grove. The scent of wet dirt and decaying leaves permeated his nose. He heard the small rustlings of nocturnal animals below the louder stirring of the wind in the high branches.
    A spark of witchfire ignited his mixture into one brilliant flash. The circles came to life with writhing flames running around and around the perimeter, working ever closer to the core of his spell. The runes glowed into fire-green sigils.
    As suddenly as the flames sprang from his fingers, they died. All was still. He looked up, expecting to see Myrilandel standing inside the outermost circle.
    “ S’murghit! Where is she?” he cursed. His eyesight still hummed with super-sharp vision. No one but himself waited inside this grove.
    He’d wait another hour, then light a fire and curl up in his blankets for the night. Perhaps tomorrow she would come. Tomorrow, when the moon was dark, his spell would be stronger. She wouldn’t be able to resist him tomorrow night.
    Mist and shadows drifted through the wild trees. He shivered again. Ghosts ran icy fingers up his spine. He dismissed them. The lost spirits of the dead couldn’t hurt him.
    He concentrated on his vision of Coronnan free of the witchwoman and magicians who provided host bodies for demons. The fire of his resolve replaced the blaze he longed to light at his rapidly chilling feet. As the power drained out of him, the cold night air attacked him anew.
    None of his followers had ventured away from the barns and village pubs where they sought shelter for the winter to join in his ritual. Glumly, he realized their zeal for a demon-free Coronnan, united under one priest-king wasn’t as strong as his own.
    The thin slice of the moon rose higher in the night sky. He waited until chills numbed the burning pain of the cut on his cheek and set his teeth chattering. When he could stand the discomfort no longer, he stood to prepare his bed and a small fire.
    The faint slurping sound of people walking among the fallen leaves sent his attention off to his left. He stilled every muscle in his body.
    The spell had worked after all!
    Patiently, he calmed his wandering mind and erratic heartbeat as he reached for his larger knife. He must kill the witchwoman quickly, before she could summon her demons to shred his soul and take over his body. No one else was near enough to distract the demons. He’d have gladly sacrificed one of his people for the opportunity to end Myrilandel’s tyranny once and for all.
    “S’murghit,” a man cursed.
    A man? Which man had Myrilandel seduced into following her blindly to feed from the poisonous trees? He had no doubt that she corrupted innocent men. Magretha had betrayed lover after lover until she eventually died for her crimes against men.
    Something heavy plopped onto the ground, followed by a squirt of moisture hitting a tree trunk.
    Thick, oily Tambootie leaves rotted into a sludgy mess that inhibited undergrowth and made for treacherous footing. Only Tambootie seeds could grow beneath a Tambootie tree, unlike honest trees whose leaves decayed into fertile dirt.
    The footsteps came closer and amid muffled profanities. Several people wearing heavy boots, not a solitary witchwoman who ran barefoot until deep winter. He enhanced his TrueSight, looking for traces of Myrilandel. He sensed only males in the grove. Two men. Lord Kammeryl’s men?
    No. They would carry torches or shielded lanterns. These intruders must be magicians who needed no light to steal the Tambootie. Magicians Lord Kammeryl did not control, or they wouldn’t need to steal.
    Moncriith shifted position, ready to attack. The death of one of Myrilandel’s consorts would bring her in a hurry.
    A smile crept into one corner of his mouth. Perhaps he should hurry to the nearest village and send messengers to Lord Kammeryl. The warlord would want to know who invaded his land in the dead of night. Kammeryl d’Astrismos guarded closely all that was his. The captured magicians would die, but only after confessing all under torture. Moncriith would derive