The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III

ring that Marilell had almost choked on.
    “Perhaps Balthazaan’s new prosperity results from Rover interference, or possibly your father’s manipulation.”
    “My father carries the plague that has infected Balthazaan’s province.”
    “So is the lord the puppet of your father or of the Rovers?” Quinnault raised one eyebrow. The solid wall that closed his mind cracked a little.
    Katie reached in with her own thoughts, sharing every twisted idea surrounding the issue.
    “The vandalism, the riot, the ambush of supply caravans, that strange storm that killed Jorghe-Rosse . . . Balthazaan was always the first to accuse you of incompetence or tyranny, Scarecrow. Perhaps he engineered the incidents.”
    “Or knew of them in advance to prepare his arguments,” Quinnault offered. “Perhaps Kinnsell and Balthazaan used each other and the Rovers ride their schemes to further their own ambitions.”
    “All of them would like to see an end to our reign for different reasons. I think we need to look closer at Balthazaan as a focus for those who oppose you at every turn, Scarecrow.”
    “The time has come to divide the opposition and thus weaken their resolve.”
    “But first we must tend to Nimbulan. We need his wisdom now more than ever.”
    “I hope we are not too late to save him.” Quinnault returned to Nimbulan’s side, lovingly holding the older man’s hand as a bit of color returned to Nimbulan’s overly pale face.
    “I hope we are not too late to find my father before he infects the entire planet with the plague. There is barely enough Tambootie left to feed the dragons. How can we cure all of our own people without it?” Katie asked herself, the others, and the air.

Chapter 38
     
    The pit beneath the city of Hanassa, time undetermined
     
    W ithout thinking of the consequences, Yaala punched a warning button on Liise’s control panel and threw a switch to break the circuit.
    The bizarre blue arcing that surrounded Rollett and jerked him back and forth in a dance of death abruptly ceased. He dropped to the ground in a boneless heap.
    The overhead lights died, plunging the entire cavern system into darkness. Yaala reeled without a sense of up and down or right and left. Hesitantly, she spread her hands away from her body for balance. Sparks leaped from Liise to her fingers. The residual current needed to complete the circuit. Like a living being, it sought contact rather than die.
    She jerked her hand away. At least she knew how far she stood from the machinery. Rollett should be just there. . . .
    She bumped against his unmoving body and dropped to her knees. “Rollett, wake up!” she pleaded with him for a sign that he still lived.
    He didn’t moan. She heard no movement, no rustle of clothing, no scrape of a shoe on rock, no whisper of air entering or exiting a pair of lungs.
    “Rollett, don’t you dare die on me!” She shook him. Tremors ran through his body.
    “I don’t know if this will work or not, but Queen Katie says it should.” Yaala stuck a finger in his mouth to make certain nothing clogged his air passage. Then she tilted back his head and blew her own breath into his mouth.
    “That works better with two people,” Old Lyman said from behind her. He held a feeble ball of witchlight in his hand. Powwell staggered beside him, barely outlined in the dim light.
    The kardia continued to rumble around them. Dust filled the air, further dimming the tiny light.
    “Help me,” Yaala pleaded with them. Tears streaked her cheeks. She dashed them away with her sleeve. There was no time for this weakness.
    She sensed the constant shifting of the caverns around her. They didn’t have much time. She wouldn’t leave Rollett, and she couldn’t carry him. His life seemed much more important than all of Hanassa right now.
    “Breathe into him on the count of five,” Lyman instructed as he knelt beside Rollett’s still unmoving form. He passed the witchlight to Powwell. The younger magician looked barely able to hold himself up, let alone maintain the dim glowing ball.
    Lyman cupped his hands over Rollett’s chest and pressed down. “One, two, three, four, breathe.”
    Yaala followed his rhythm. Two times, three times, and a fourth they forced Rollett’s heart to beat while Yaala breathed for him. On the seventh try, or was it the eleventh, Rollett gasped and coughed. He tried sitting up, but Lyman held him down.
    “Rest a moment, boy,” Lyman said, holding Rollett down with one