The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

For several weeks he’d shied away from other people lest they recognize him. His aimless wandering in a generally southeasterly direction had taken him well beyond the usual battlefields and recruiting regions.
    As if his thoughts of warm huts and cheerful fires with tasty dinners roasting over them had conjured the aroma, he caught the scent of bread baking. The warm yeasty smell roused his stomach and set his mouth watering. Food. Warmth. People to share the food and the fire with. A place to sleep out of the rain. Magic and lords, battles and schools had no place in his life now.
    Following close upon the aroma of baking bread came the clip-clop of steed hooves against the hard-packed dirt road. The light rain was persistent but not intense enough to turn the road to mud. Nimbulan counted the sounds. He heard several steeds plodding along at a slow but steady pace. He guessed they pulled heavy loads rather than bearing riders.
    A whisper of caution wiggled into his mind. He stepped off the road, behind a tree and waited.
    Voices. Gibberish. Either they were farther away than he thought, or the other travelers spoke a foreign tongue. Curiosity vied with caution.
    Down the road, four sledges came into view. Brightly painted cabins perched atop the conveyances. A thin coil of smoke rose from a metal chimney in the last cabin—the source of the baking bread. A team of two small draft steeds, perhaps half the size of the huge sledge steeds used to haul heavy trade loads or army supplies, pulled each of the strange vehicles. Dark-haired men walked beside the teams. None of them carried the long whips customarily used by caravan wranglers. Following the sledges came a host of people, old and young, male and female. All of them dark-haired with olive-toned skin. They wore black accented with bright colors in kerchiefs, vests, sashes, and petticoats. Scrolling embroidery decorated each layer of clothing.
    He’d found a clan of Rovers. Old legends and fearful gossip raced through his memory. Can’t trust a thieving Rover. No one crafts metal better than a Rover. Rovers will steal your children. Wild animals love Rovers and obey with little or no training. Rover women have no morals and will steal your soul. Rover women know tricks that will delight you in bed and leave you smiling for days.
    The old whispers lingered, especially the last one.
    An elderly man lifted his voice in song.
    The lyrics slid over Nimbulan’s understanding. Definitely a foreign language. But the tune made his feet itch to walk in rhythm and harmony with these people.
    The women picked up the chorus, children chanted the refrain and men hummed a harmony in three parts, unlike anything Nimbulan had ever heard. The haunting rhythm reached out and grabbed him, setting his feet tapping and begging him to join his voice with the others.
    He resisted, unsure if he should betray his presence yet. Instead he hummed along, letting the music vibrate from the back of his throat down to warm his belly. A hint of magic drifted in that song. The entire clan sang a spell of joy.
    Nimbulan chuckled. Though he didn’t recognize the words, he knew their intent: avoid trouble they didn’t initiate by robbing troublemakers of their anger.
    “You might as well join us, stranger,” the lead wrangler said without stopping the caravan.
    Nimbulan stepped out of the shadows. He knew the song had robbed him of caution and alarm. He didn’t care. “Which way do you travel?” he asked, falling into step beside the man. His face seemed young, though squint lines around his black eyes suggested years and maturity.
    “We travel where the road leads us, unless we find a better direction along the way.” The wrangler whistled sharply at the steeds who had slowed their pace. The animals picked up their feet with brisk purpose immediately.
    “This road looks good to me for now. I’d welcome companionship for a time.” Nimbulan scanned the clan spread out behind him. A vague similarity of the shapes of nose and chin told him they were truly a clan and not a motley gathering of outcasts. Who knew what crimes such a group would be capable of if they were immoral enough for Rovers to throw them out.
    “Rovers are never lonely and rarely alone. Do you have a name, stranger?”
    “Lan,” Nimbulan offered the childhood shortening of his name. Rovers traveled everywhere; they probably had heard of Nimbulan the Battlemage.
    “Lan.” The Rover rolled the name around his