The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

much power from the men’s pain and blood.
    Lord Kammeryl might even be grateful for the information and grant Moncriith the right to winter in the fortress or one of the villages.
    “There are a few late leaves here, sir. And some Timboor. The berries have almost as much of the essential oils as the leaves.” A quiet, authoritative voice broke the silence of the night.
    “Only the leaves carry enough untainted power for my experiments. We must fill the baskets with leaves and come back for the Timboor.” That voice took on an edge of impatience. Or was it desperation?
    Glee lightened Moncriith’s heart. He recognized the two men now. Nimbulan and Ackerly. Nimbulan, who had had him exiled from the army camp in order to protect Myrilandel. Ackerly, who had defied orders and given him provisions.
    Where was Myrilandel now? Why was Nimbulan stealing from his own lord?
    He’d get answers later. This opportunity to rid Coronnan of one more of Myrilandel’s consorts was too good to waste. Nimbulan’s death would decrease her power and make her vulnerable when she finally came to this grove of the Tambootie to feed.
    Moncriith rose to his full height. His knife fit his hand perfectly. He reversed his grip to strike with the heavy hilt.
    Blood would attract a horde of demons. He could draw power from Nimbulan’s pain and death, but he wasn’t certain it would be enough to overcome more than one demon at a time until Myrilandel was dead.
    He wouldn’t have to kill Nimbulan here and now, merely rob him of his senses with a single mighty blow to his head, then deliver him to Lord Kammeryl.
    “Run, Ackerly. It’s that crazed Bloodmage again. He has a knife!” Nimbulan screamed.
    Moncriith followed the sounds of running feet. Nimbulan’s fear fed Moncriith’s magic and trued his aim.
     
    Ackerly dodged right, off the narrow path. He crouched beside a massive trunk, hoping his dark cloak would shield him from view.
    “You can’t escape me, Nimbulan!” Moncriith dashed past him, knife raised high, hilt forward.
    Surprise destroyed Ackerly’s caution. With the knife reversed, Moncriith must intend to merely stun his victim. Would he then consign Nimbulan’s partially conscious body to the flames? The hideous, painful death made Ackerly shudder.
    “I know the demon that leads you. I know all of her tricks,” Moncriith bellowed. His rage burned sparks at the end of his fingers where they were clenched around the knife, and on the heels of his feet when they struck the ground.
    Ackerly examined the details of his glimpse of Moncriith, committing them to memory. The Bloodmage let his temper cloud his judgment. He was also too fond of announcing his intentions and motives to the entire world before acting. Over the years Ackerly had stored a great deal of information within his capacious memory. The right information was as good as gold. Who would pay to know Moncriith’s weakness?
    He never had enough gold.
    The sound of the knife shattering against a tree trunk reverberated through the grove of Tambootie. Ackerly looked toward the source of the sound, bringing as much magic as he could to his vision.
    Moncriith stood trembling a dozen paces away. His knife had indeed shattered and lay in pieces around his feet. He crossed and massaged his arms with kneading fingers, probably from the shock of his blow. He shook his head as if clearing it of the rage that gripped him. Reason returned to his eyes and posture. Quickly he picked up a fallen branch and tested the weight in his hand.
    Where was Nimbulan? Ackerly hunted the night with anxious eyes. Another crouched figure shifted in the gloom three trees to the left and slightly behind Moncriith.
    Ackerly adjusted his magic vision to survey his oldest friend. No visible signs of injury, merely the trembling of fear and Tambootie deprivation. Nimbulan needed a fresh dose of the drug soon. His magic grew more dependent on the artificial enhancement every day. Ackerly made sure he had ever increasing daily doses to feed that addiction. Even when Nimbulan forgot to ask for it.
    Thank the Stargods, he, Ackerly, had never succumbed to the temptations of the Tambootie. After his trial by smoke at the age of thirteen, he’d known he couldn’t weave the Kardia into his spells and Tambootie did nothing to increase his powers.
    Nimbulan had grown to depend upon the drug for more than just magic. In the desperation of battles that taxed his endurance beyond safe limits, the