The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

Tambootie was the only thing that kept his magic alive, and therefore ensured his own safety during and after the battle.
    The drug also kept Nimbulan oblivious to mundane matters like the cost of provisions. If he didn’t count his coins carefully, Ackerly wasn’t about to tell the Battlemage how many coins he skimmed from the budget.
    Ackerly could tell by the way Nimbulan cowered beside the tree rather than facing his enemy with spells and guile that a lack of the Tambootie in his system left him vulnerable, defenseless.
    “Sir, are you all right? Where are you, sir? I can’t find you.” Ackerly shuffled his feet and threw his voice ten paces ahead of Moncriith. A trick that looked like magic but wasn’t.
    Moncriith followed the diversion away from Nimbulan’s crouched form. Ackerly crept silently over to Nimbulan’s side.
    Nimbulan stood and stepped toward Moncriith. He raised his left palm in preparation for a spell. Ackerly grasped the Senior Magician’s shoulders. Nimbulan stared at him with wide, questioning eyes. Ackerly pressed a finger to his lips, signaling silence. Keeping one hand on Nimbulan’s shoulder, he guided the taller man away from Moncriith and his heavy club.
    Nimbulan stumbled on some unseen obstacle. Ackerly smiled to himself as he slipped his arm around Nimbulan’s waist in support. Better to make the Senior Magician think himself weaker than he was. Together they slipped back into the forest darkness, toward their waiting steeds.
    The sound of running feet brought them up short.
    “Come back here, you cowardly magician! I must cleanse you of demon possession!” Moncriith yelled. “Face the wrath of the Stargods and know the truth. Demons lead you into battle. Demons guide your every step. Demons rule Coronnan.” His words echoed against the trunks of the Tambootie trees.
    Firelight glimmered in the near distance as men ran toward Moncriith.
    “What’s this? Who are you?” Men wearing half armor in the dark green and maroon of Lord Kammeryl d’Astrismos’ colors moved into view. They held their torches high, seeking the source of the disturbance.
    “Come back here, Nimbulan. We haven’t finished this!” Moncriith’s cry broke off. “Let go of me, you imbecile. He’s getting away. He’s stealing Tambootie from your lord.”
    “There’s no one there, you crazy preacher. You’re chasing shadows. Come with us to report to Lord Kammeryl.”
    “We haven’t time. Demons are shielding Nimbulan. They’re helping him get away.”
    “You’re crazier than I thought. Now will you come quiet or do we tie you up and drag you to Lord Kammeryl’s dungeons?”
    The sound of a struggle, grunts and moans, slaps, and a heavy body hitting the ground urged Ackerly to move faster toward the steeds.
    He counted an officer and ten men. Enough men and weapons to contain Moncriith. Unless Moncriith had become so crazed he ignored his own safety.
    “We’ll be safe now, Nimbulan,” Ackerly said when they had silently led their steeds nearly a league away before mounting.
    No reply. Nimbulan stood beside his mount, swaying—with indecision, fatigue, or reaction?
    “I’ll find you Tambootie, sir. We can buy it at the market in Sambol. Then you can finish your experiments.” He offered his friend cupped hands to help him mount.
    “Buy it? I used most of my gold to buy furniture and supplies for the school.” Nimbulan stared at Ackerly’s offered hands as if uncertain what to do with the gift.
    “I’ll find a way to get some. Just leave everything to me.”
     
    “I thought you condemned conventional magic, Moncriith. And yet you trespassed into my Tambootie grove—the trees that feed magicians,” Lord Kammeryl d’Astrismos said in weary tones that barely reached the seven people standing around his chair of office. “My men found your camp. You have been there for some time. Since you condemn the Tambootie as demon food, I thought you would try to fell the trees, not live amongst them.”
    The guards who had arrested Moncriith had roused the lord from his bed to deal with the crime of trespass and resisting arrest.
    Moncriith stood before the lord, unbowed by the heavy, and totally unnecessary, chains on his wrists, ankles, and neck. He had no intention of leaving Castle Krej, the ancestral fortress of Kammeryl d’Astrismos, until spring.
    The lord glared at him from beneath heavy eyelids. Clad only in an ornate dressing gown of red-gold brocade that matched his hair to