The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

the void without an anchor to pull us home.”
    “Correct, Gilby.” Nimbulan gulped down a fresh pitcher of water. His tongue felt thick and clumsy. Yet he felt refreshed and fired by his eagerness to complete this experiment successfully. “Step out of the circle and monitor the fire. Try to maintain a light trance without any Tambootie. At the first sign of trouble, grab Rollett and me first. We’re the strongest and should be able to help you pull the others back. Not that I’m expecting trouble. This same spell worked this morning. Only the inexperience of the apprentices held us back.”
    He snapped his fingers. An infusion of Tambootie leaves in hot water brewing in large mugs appeared before each of the six experimenters.
    “Drink up, boys. I’m anxious to see how this procedure works.”
    They all hoisted the dose of Tambootie to their lips and drank deeply of the bitter brew.
    “Breathe in, one, two, three,” Gilby guided them.
    Reality blurred around Nimbulan. People and furniture grew fuzzy around the edges. His heart rate increased with excitement. He was finally going to prove that magic could be combined and thus control any solitary magician. No single Battlemage could defeat the combined might of Nimbulan and his helpers. Only then could magic and magicians remove themselves from war and politics and become neutral servants of all the people of Coronnan.
    “Breathe in, one, two, three,” Gilby chanted a second time.
    The void beckoned Nimbulan, crowding out the lantern light in the workroom. He’d never climbed into the black nothingness so easily. His elation didn’t keep him from checking on the boys. All four were still seated in a circle holding hands, but each aura reached for the void individually.
    “Breathe. . . .”
    Nimbulan lost track of Gilby’s chant as blackness enclosed him. He looked around for the others.
    Nothing. No one.
    The blackness robbed him of sight, hearing, smell, touch. Only the bitter aftertaste of timboor lingered.
    Timboor! Poison Timboor, not useful Tambootie.

Chapter 18
     
    A ckerly bent over Nimbulan’s crumpled body. He listened carefully with ears and magic for signs of breath or heartbeat.
    Nothing.
    He pulled his glass from his trews pocket and held it beneath the master magician’s nose. No cloud obscured the pristine clarity.
    Tall and thin in life, the man he had served since they had both been boys, seemed diminished, shrunken in death.
    “In the end we all are reduced to this, regardless of talent,” he whispered to himself. “How much Tambootie did he have?” he asked the assembled apprentices. All eight of them who now looked to him for leadership and training.
    His heart beat a little faster with excitement.
    Grief, he told himself. Only grief. But now I can make something of this ragtag school. Something important. Something profitable.
    “He took a standard dose with the younglings right after we broke our fast at dawn,” Rollett said through the tears he choked back.
    “That spell succeeded, but he was greatly fatigued. Once he’d eaten and drunk deeply, he took another standard dose with the older boys,” Gilby finished. White-faced with shock and guilt, the young man’s hands shook and his shoulders trembled. “I tried to pull him out of the void. Him and Rollett first, like he said, but his soul wouldn’t return to his body.”
    “We followed him into the trance just like always. But when we got to the void, he wasn’t there. I saw the others but not him!” Jaanus added. “He wasn’t there.”
    The others nodded their agreement. Something had gone terribly wrong between the first and second dosage. Or perhaps all the years of accumulated addiction had finally taken him.
    Ackerly looked at Nimbulan’s body once more for obvious signs of why he had died. Beside him lay a wrinkled piece of parchment, partially unrolled and flattened. The writing wiggled and bounced around as he watched. He reached for it then quickly withdrew his hand.
    “The guilt is not yours, boys,” he said still staring at the parchment. “Where did this come from?” He pointed at the written message.
    “A courier from Lord Kammeryl d’Astrismos,” Rollett replied, also staring at the parchment. “He didn’t wait for a reply but said it was urgent.” His mouth remained slightly open, eyes wide, as the implication of the spell contained within the message penetrated his grief.
    “Maalin, you are good with fire. Burn the thing, without